


A Wife's Prologue

by rosncrntz



Series: The Widow and the Wife [2]
Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: A little bit of angst, Alternate History, F/M, Fluffy, Forgive Me, Happy Ending, Lots of romance, Married Life, Parenthood, Sequel, Soulmates, Vicbourne, happy marriage, trials and tribulations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 19:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11237538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosncrntz/pseuds/rosncrntz
Summary: Victoria and William are married, and endlessly happy together at Brocket Hall. But, Victoria is still Queen and so duty bids the couple back to Buckingham. Juggling motherhood and her duty as Queen, Victoria discovers the trials and tribulations of her happy marriage, whilst William must adjust to life as the Queen's husband. This whirlwind romance must face London society, and govern the nation. Sequel to "A Widow's Epilogue".





	1. Buckingham

**Author's Note:**

> Due to popular demand, this is my sequel to "A Widow's Epilogue" - one of my most popular fics. I am absolutely thrilled with the response it has received, and I couldn't help but jump back into this world and carry on with the story of my little lovebirds. Expect less angst from this fic (probably - there might be just a little) but be ready to explore how our lovers adjust to their positions, and how country and family can be in conflict. Thank you to Diane S, whose comment has given me a lot of inspiration for this fic.
> 
> As always, your comments and feedback are very much appreciated - enjoy!

The honeymoon, yellowed with sunsets around the edges, like the memories in an old manuscript, world-worn and musky-smelling, was coming to an end. The autumn leaves were leaving branches bare and wintry and the air’s honeyed balm was falling into a crisp cold. It did not, however, prevent the young Queen from bounding down the grass barefoot to the Broadwater in the first hours of the morning, collecting the icy dew on her toes and kicking it up in crystals, catching the early light. Her nightgown, thin and white, did not keep out the wind which curved the material around her legs, goose-pimpling. They would tremble if she stopped running. And then, at the brink of the Broadwater, she would lift the skirt above her ankles, smile at the ever-moving surface of the water, and paddle. The water was clear as quartz and it ran through her toes, wriggled. The sun had barely breached the horizon with orange light when she stepped out of the water again, feeling the soft grass on her soles, feeling her hair down on her shoulders, and feeling nothing like the Queen she was. She had no foresight of the end of the honeymoon. As far as she knew, the honeymoon would go on forever, and they would watch their children grow up and not once think of Queen or country.

But William Lamb, always the pragmatic, though his heart so dearly wished to live out this dream of theirs for the rest of time, knew that the honeymoon period must come to an end with the end of the autumn season. At winter, they would return to Buckingham as man and wife. Despite adoring this world of Brocket that housed his family, he was not unhappy to return to Buckingham Palace. It would be a return to normality (though, he was now a royal) and their marriage would go from a fairy tale to something testing, messy, and good.

William told his wife of the necessity of their return on a walk around Brocket Park with their children: Vicky walking beside her mother, Edward walked beside his father, holding his large hand in his little one, and little Alice was held tight to her mother’s bosom. The air was not so chilly today, despite November drawing in its reign and resigning itself for another year, so they could walk comfortably as a family. And the warmth of the world encouraged William Lamb to raise the subject with Victoria.

“You do know we must return to a permanent residence at Buckingham Palace?” he asked, not meeting her eye but instead the eyes of a pair of rooks taking to wing above his head. Victoria stopped walking and, for a few distracted moments watching the rooks, William continued his path before noticing his wife and two young girls no longer walked beside him. He stopped, turned, and saw Victoria’s face – forlorn.

“Oh, must we go back?” she moaned, feeling the tensing of her muscles where Buckingham would pinch and bite at her. “Do you not want to stay here forever? Aren’t you happy?” she cried. William laughed, taking a few steps back towards his love, and taking her free hand gently.

“You must know that I am endlessly happy here with you,” he said with so much feeling that Victoria saw tears spring into his eyes. It moved her. “But you are still the Queen of England, you cannot run away from that.”

“Oh, curse this England! It is so dreary when you are not in it, William!” she shouted with enough force to fright a few more rooks into flight. They flapped their wings in great claps over their heads.

“But I will be in it. I will come with you!” he laughed. Victoria could not help but smile with his laughter, though it grieved her to have such a weak constitution. “It will be an adventure, Victoria. I am sure you have missed the parties.”

“Whatever do you mean? Do you mean to insinuate that I am a fickle party-goer with little better to do with her time than drink champagne and dance?”

“I would scarcely believe you would return to London purely for your duty as monarch, my dear,” he jibed, raising an eyebrow. He was flirting with her. One could have thought the flirting would have ceased by now – but he was quite insistent on it continuing. He was incorrigible.

“Well now I certainly won’t go with you to London. You’re a bounder!”

“But what if I were to command you? I am a royal now, after all.” Flirting, again. Victoria scoffed.

“Hardly! You are the wife of a Queen but you a barely a royal. Know your place, Lord M.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Most certainly.”

Young Vicky and Edward were getting impatient with the waiting and their parents’ flirting, and so they were beginning to tug at hands and skirts, anything that would get the pair to move along and return to Brocket Hall. Victoria knew her husband to be wise and – though she hated doing so – she listened to him. She knew the honeymoon was coming to an end, and so was the autumn, and she knew that spending Christmas at Buckingham Palace would be very agreeable indeed. So, she set the date for one week from that day, early in December, when Queen Victoria would return to Buckingham Palace with her husband, the Viscount Melbourne, and her three young children, Vicky, Edward, and Alice.

The children were excited to be moving in to Buckingham Palace. They were told by their father that they could pick their rooms. They then asked how many rooms they could pick from and – though he knew they were not all bedrooms and not all eligible for young children like themselves – he told them that there were seven hundred and seventy-five separate rooms. This caused much excitement, and make the process of bundling into a carriage on a cold December morning far, far more acceptable.

The journey itself was not a peaceful one. Vicky was becoming very good at talking, and did so often, and at great length, and when her parents really wished she wouldn’t. Edward was at a curious age, and Alice cried on the journey. Both Victoria and William arrived in London with headaches. But they were not discouraged but, instead, quite happy to be returning to a familiar place. They had spent many, many happy times in the walls of Buckingham Palace. And it would be exciting to have more room, and be in the midst of the drama of English life once again. Brocket Hall was lovely, of course, but it was so secluded. It could become boring with long periods housed in it.

There was a sense of optimism felt by all.

The reception at the palace was warmer than they could ever have hoped it. There was not just a jovial spirit, but a crowd arranged in the entrance to greet the Queen and her dearest husband who, though not a new addition to the family now, had not yet lived at Buckingham as the Queen’s husband. Penge headed them – with his grave sternness melted into a geniality that smoothed the edges of his sharp face – and behind him was a large crown of servants. Victoria immediately saw the sweet faces of her two closest maids: Mrs Jenkins, red cheeks glowing, and Miss Skerrett, pretty as ever (Victoria had always thought Miss Skerrett such a handsome young thing, and thought it such an awful shame that she hadn’t the prospects to use such beauty). The chef, Francatelli, close to her, clearly glad that he would finally have some work to do, as the royal was back for good. Beside the smartened crowd of servants was her mother, teary-eyed at seeing her daughter once again, now married. Victoria quickly looked past her mother to see Emma Portman – oh dear Emma Portman! – dressed in the sweetest shade of pale green, smiling to her like the mother she never had, and then turning a playful gaze to her old friend William. Beside Emma stood the lovely Harriet Sutherland, her grin almost bursting through her frame, it was so wide and bright.

Victoria ran to greet all of her friends with as much fervour as her tired body could muster, showering them with kind words and genuine smiles, the holding of hands and kissed cheeks, even to her mother, who seemed so happy to receive them. Then, she greeted her servants as a whole, and thanked them for their continued service. William, too, greeted the congregation after his wife, with more subtlety than her, but just as much warmth. The servants were dismissed and left happily, the children were taken by the governess, and the adults moved through to the sitting room, where much conversation was shared on what had passed since their marriage and the birth of their child.

There was a general agreement – of course there was – that Alice was a beautiful little girl. She was so sweet natured, they all said, not harbouring the headaches that came with a journey of hearing her scream. The parents thanked them, however, playing along. Emma and William sat beside each other and, whilst Victoria was forced to engage in the awkward chit-chat with her mother, Emma and William talked together in low voices.

“I have never seen her look healthier, William,” Emma whispered, looking to the Queen on the chaise opposite them, her hands bundled in her lap, full-faced, glowing, smiling serenely, eyes bright and quick, with all the youth she had at eighteen years. William smiled at Emma’s words, and looked to his wife. He had never seen her look more beautiful, haloed in the December light streaming in through the window behind her, creating a silver line around her form as she turned her chin to the ground. “I have never seen you look healthier, either.”

“She is magnificent,” he breathed, barely able to draw his eyes from her to look to Emma, who the statement was aimed towards. Or was it? He was spellbound by her, ruled by her, conquered by her. She was his Queen and Empress. She built him sky high and broke him until he fell to his knees. What a wonderful thing it was to hold a place in her heart, and what an honour to save a place in his for her.

Victoria heard the whisper. The corner of her mouth curled. Her stomach twisted. She did not let him know she had heard but took the compliment and wrapped it gently in muslin, placing it in her bosom, and feeling the press of it with every breath.

That evening they ate as a family by candlelight. Buckingham had a breath-taking dining room, gilded and heavenly, so grand that Victoria and William could hardly believe the change in setting after spending so many evenings in the airy dining room at Brocket. And the food! Francatelli was the Queen’s chef for a reason. Victoria ate slowly, making sure that the gathering of her dearest friends and family could all finish their courses before they’d be whisked away. The dessert was particularly wonderful by Victoria’s standards, for it had a syrup of Chilean guavas, sweet and sugary. William found the whole thing far too saccharine for his standards, but was amused by Victoria’s sweet-tooth. Nothing, it seemed, could be too sweet for her.

They drank for merriment until the air was doped with the fumes of port and champagne. They were not drunken, but cheerful, and the conversation flowered until the sun had dipped behind the London rooftops (far earlier than it seemed to at Brocket, for the horizon was higher). When Victoria’s lids began to grow heavy and the yawns and sighs began to sound, Lady Emma and Harriet Sutherland took their leave, thanking the happy couple for their hospitality, and leaving with a jolly feeling, and assured that the marriage of Queen Victoria and William Lamb was the most contented in England. The Duchess of Kent, unusually happy and unusually welcomed by her daughter, too took her leave, and went to bed. Dash trotted at Victoria’s feet, heavy and drowsy, before curling up in his bed and falling swiftly to sleep. William and Victoria, aware of the air of sleep coming about the palace, climbed the stairs together in silence. There was no need for them to talk at all, and they did not move in haste. Victoria ran her hand along the banister, enjoying the feel of the marble beneath her hand, cold and elegant, and William walked a few steps behind her, looking to the portraits on the wall before looking at her. Always looking back to her.

There was a stillness that was endlessly peaceful. It was strange that in the city, that was so loud and bustling during the day, the nights are quieter than the nights in the country. Gone were the chirps of crickets and the hoot of a stray owl, the ruffle of feathers or scatter of branches against windows and each other. And what remained was the occasional distant tap of hooves, and a sleeping city. Buckingham Palace was a vault, and to Victoria and William it was a world of their own. Victoria had been reluctant to return to Buckingham – but this was home. Of course, she knew she would return to Brocket, but Buckingham was her first love. Here, she felt like a wife and a Queen. She felt treasured. She felt whole, with William by her side.

He closed the door behind them and the chamber door clicked, a sound almost deafening in the silence. The bed was an expanse of untouched sheets, white, made up carefully by a maid now asleep and dreaming below. The bed was their heaven. William unloosed her corset with tender hands, running fingers along the ribbons and tugging them free, letting Victoria’s breath come freely through her torso. He could hear it, and felt it on his cheek as he turned her face towards him. She was unravelled now, and her breath was increasing in speed. Mouth gaping open only slightly, eyes upturned and deep blue even in the darkness, her gaze glistened, and her love exuded from her. Her eyelashes were fluttering quickly, her blinking rapid, unafraid but thrilled.

“Will you be happy here, Victoria?” he breathed, voice so low she could hardly pick it out from the consuming silence. Her breathing turned to a ghost of a laugh, her smile taking his breath away. Her hand cupped the cheek of her husband, reassuring him. He could smell her perfume on her wrist – orange blossoms.

“I am so happy,” she replied, almost weeping, running her thumbs along the height of William’s cheekbone, which caught the candlelight so delicately it was as if a fine artist sculpted his face, and it was highlighted in gold, flickering between pale and dark. His eyes, too, burnished in the candlelight, the green being set alight, dazzling but kind. She felt unbelievably lucky to have met him, and luckier still to have his cheek against her palm, and luckier still to call him husband, and luckier still to spent her nights in his arms. “Will you be happy?” she asked, tilting her head to the side inquisitively. William’s bright eyes brushed over the porcelain of her skin and settled on her eyes, intelligent and wide, and hiding a wealth of brilliance.

“Of course. Of course, my love,” he crooned, placing his hand on the dip where her neck met her shoulder, before running it up along the back of her head where her hair was tied, and he loosened the tie, letting her dark hair fall, which he took in between his fingers, pulling around her face. Wordlessly, speechless, he kissed her forehead, tracing kisses – so light – along her hairline before moving to her neck, where the kisses sent warmth through her skin. This was happiness, she thought.

He took her hands and guided her to the bed, setting her down, and whispering endearments to her, like prayers. She wanted to return them, but found that she had only the strength of voice to return in sighs and gasps. He was perfectly happy with that, however, and drew them from her with kisses and touches. Feather-light, and divine.

This was happiness, he thought. And he was right.

Above London the following morning, in the cold light and against the pale overcast sky, the Englishmen, women, and children remarked and rejoiced on how the Queen and her husband were in residence, as they looked above their slated rooftops to see the red, white and blue of the Union flag flying at full mast, proud and high and caught on the wind.


	2. Duchy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The country greets the Queen and her husband. But what will her husband become?

Queen Victoria, having settled in extremely well after her first week back in Buckingham Palace, was sat in the sitting room with her Prime Minister. It was often difficult for her to remember that her husband was not her Prime Minister and, seeing him walking around the palace in the mornings, she almost expected him to lead her to the despatch box and work through the papers together as they used to. But he took to the care of their children, the family, whilst the time moved slowly between Victoria and Robert Peel. Signing the papers, she was sighing to herself and looking up over the pile lugged onto the wooden table to view Robert Peel, who looked close to falling asleep. Victoria laughed at him, and – rousing himself – he laughed politely back at her. However much Victoria struggled to remember that Robert Peel was her Prime Minister, she was very happy that he was – he was a good man, she would always think so. She liked him very much.

This morning, however, was interrupted with a stirring. At first, the sound seemed as if it must be the wind, and Victoria brushed her inhibitions aside as she signed away yet another paper. Then, the noise became persistent, like a drumming, in equal parts distant and widespread. She looked up over the papers again to view Robert Peel, who did not seem concerned in the slightest. Biting her lip and taking the leaf of paper in her hands, casting it aside, she asked,

“Can you not hear that, Sir Robert?”

“Ma’am?” he asked, as if she were not making perfect sense. Victoria felt her hand twitch. She loosened her grip, but her voice emerged no calmer.

“That noise! It’s most distracting to my work!” Perhaps it was seeing the Queen’s distress that suddenly let Sir Robert to understand the Queen’s meaning. He seemed to jump at the realisation of it, letting out an exclamation, and raising his finger to the sky,

“Ah, yes! From outside, Ma’am? I believe there is a crowd,” he explained, turning his head to the window. From his seat, he was too low to see the crowds, but he strained nonetheless, to save himself the embarrassment of looking away too soon.

“A crowd?”

“I believe so, Ma’am, yes,” he replied, finally tearing his gaze from the window which was showing him nothing but a pale grey sky.

“What do they want?”

“Well, Ma’am, it is the first counsel you have undertaken with the Prime Minister since retaking your permanent residence here at Buckingham Palace. I suppose they’re hoping to see you.”

It never failed to thrill her. It never would. She could be Queen for a century, and the bubbling of nerves and pride that she felt upon hearing of her dear country’s affection for her would never lessen. All of a sudden, she felt restless, like some wind was coming through the window, created by the force of her people’s ardour, and it was kicking her up like a leaf on the ground, catching her only slightly at first, so she trembled and skipped but, very soon, she would be lifted by it and caught up. She wanted more than anything to greet her people on the balcony, but she forced herself to carry on as if she couldn’t hear them, lifting leaves of paper, reading them, signing them, and placing them on another pile.

And as she did so, her eyes focused almost crazedly on work, Robert Peel watched her hesitantly, eventually asking,

“Would you like to greet them, Ma’am?”

Lord Melbourne was fixing the band on Vicky’s head, smoothing her dark hair beneath the blue sash and carefully adjusting it to sit behind her ear, as not to disturb her. She had been fiddling with it almost ceaselessly all morning, and William had decided, finally, to fix it for her. She was not enjoying the process, however, and her face was fixed in a frown as her step-father preened her. She didn’t want to stand still. Standing still was boring. Oh, if only he would hurry up!

But after tucking the band behind the girl’s ear, he let her go, and watched affectionately as she ran off. He began to chuckle, when Victoria burst into the room. William stood up. It was unusual to have the Queen of England come to seek you, and so he looked at her almost dazedly for a second before she spoke,

“My love, there is a crowd outside!” she cried. Robert Peel followed closely behind her. He seemed awkward, straight as a pin and just as cold. He could not shake the feeling that he was invading in their home, and their family. And, to add to his discomfort, he could hardly fathom that the previous Whig Prime Minister and his long-time political rival, of all people, was the Queen’s husband. It would bring a foul taste to his mouth – but then he remembered his wife’s smile at the wedding, and he was soothed.

“Yes. I have heard.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Oh, William, you’ve been the Prime Minister to two monarchs!”

“You will go out and greet them?”

“No.”

“Why ever not?”

“I will not go out and greet them. We will.”

William felt his face become hot and it was with a great thundering of his heart that he realised he was blushing. Not only did this embarrass him, but it also frightened him. He felt his palms become slick in a fresh sweat and his heartbeat was felt in his throat. He was sure he could feel a headache. Victoria, on the other hand, was cool and calm and lively with her joy, beaming from her eyes and smile and wide, open arms.

“Yes. Of course,” he said, smiling as chirpily as possible. Victoria was too much in a state of excitement to notice her husband’s reservations, and she took the hand that was stretched before him and whisked him from the room the way they would dance. He, careful and wary, and she, flighty and passionate. Impatient. She was laughing as she went and something in that silvery laugh of hers was able to calm him, and he began to smile as she led him towards the balcony. She held his hand all the while, unable to let go.

There seemed to be a wall of noise, impenetrable and formidable, on the balcony, and William could feel its strength as, together, they walked out to greet their people. Her people. Victoria walked slightly in front, being the Queen, and William walked only a few steps behind her, being just a husband, but perfectly happy in it. It was bright though it was cold, and there was a severe bright sky that hurt William’s eyes. He felt sure that he would squint into the crowd, and they would think him quite unsightly for it. He was breathing shakily through his nose, in and out, sounding like a train out of control. He hoped Victoria wouldn’t notice. He hoped England wouldn’t notice.

But then, like a moment had been frozen in time, he was brought back to his wife’s accession. Strange, now, to call her a wife, when before he could only call her a monarch. He remembered it so clearly it could have happened yesterday, yet it had the hazy quality of a dream, fluffed around the edges and colours seemed to seep into one another like bleeding ink and the light made no shadows or highlights but simply gradients. But the sounds, they were crisp. He could hear her voice, shaking and afraid, girlish, but will strength to leave him speechless. Victoria, she had said. And he had repeated it, like one repeats a prayer, or the words of a song. Living that inch in time, he could remember a thought that passed through his head: he was sure he felt like William Wilberforce, singing Amazing Grace, filled with divinity. He could never have claimed to achieve anything like to Wilberforce, but that same undeniable affinity with history that he surely felt was felt by William Lamb when he said those words,

“Queen Victoria.”

He had smiled when he said it. Because he knew that he was the first to say two words that would be said for centuries to come. And he knew that others, too, would smile upon hearing it.

He felt the force of history the second his toe clicked on the balcony, and his eyes flittered down to the crowds, indistinct people forming a mass of colour and movement, and he stopped and let his wife move forward, waving to her people, prim and beautiful but friendly. He was filled with a warm pride that stretched from his feet, up through his body, and into his fingertips, which itched to take her hand once again. But, of course, he knew he shouldn’t. Victoria, taking her waving hand down to her side, turned back only for a moment to look at her husband. She was silhouetted in light, he thought, her hair blowing across her jaw as if she had been sketched and they were the false lines, and the artist had made her eyes glint and her smile wide and perfect. And the artist had stretched her hand out, out for him, bid him take it and the artist had put the words to her lips,

“Come.”

Shaking feet inched forward until he stood beside the Queen, and a great cry emerged from the crowd. An outpouring of love which, to a politician, was entirely alien, and it brought tears to the corners of his eyes. Everyone was happy, as the monarch was happy. And she was so terribly, terribly happy.

When they eventually drew themselves back into the palace, William noticed how weak he had become. The adrenaline had drawn all his strength from him and he was left a mess. He clenched his fists, rubbed his hands together, took long breaths, all to try to regain some strength, which – slowly but surely – he felt returning. Victoria was ruddy-cheeked with joy, proud of her husband, and already crying out her happiness to Sir Robert, who was quite amused at Lord Melbourne’s state.

“Oh, it is so wonderful to see my people so happy! I am so proud! Aren’t you happy, Sir Robert?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“William, wasn’t that wonderful?”

“Yes, my dear,” he laughed.

“I shall write such wonderful things about this in my journal. Oh, I will remember this for a long time. They took to you so well, William, didn’t they? I thought they would – but I was so afraid that the ardour may have worn off! You never know, with politicians, the mood may have swung Tory, and then God knows how they would have reacted!”

Sir Robert coughed. Victoria did not notice.

“But they seemed so pleased to see you there with me. Oh, I am so glad! I suppose they think our marriage an entirely happy one, don’t you? They will be so happy with little Alice once she is old enough to go out into society. Oh, we must go out often, William. They do quite adore us, I think. Don’t you think so, Sir Robert?” she gushed. She could hardly be contained.

“Of course, Ma’am,” he replied before taking on a more serious tone, “That does remind me. We have not yet discussed Lord Melbourne’s title.”

“Title?” Victoria asked, turning to William with a cheeky smile, “My husband will have a title?”

“It is customary for the spouse of a monarch to be given some sort of title. Of course, Prince Consort wouldn’t do, as this is merely a morganatic marriage. But, I believe it would be wise for Lord Melbourne to be given a duchy.”

Lord Melbourne was quite taken aback by all this, and his nerves were already unsteady.

“The Duke of Hertfordshire, perhaps? For, if I am right, my Lord, that is the place of your birth, is it not?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, it is,” Lord Melbourne replied.

Before another word could be said, Victoria butted in,

“Hertfordshire?” she cried, her gaze darting between Sir Robert and her husband. She seemed outraged, and the men seemed baffled. “But I have never heard of such a title!”

“Well, no, Ma’am. You see, it would be a new title. But, these are extraordinary circumstances, so–“

“No, I will not hear of ‘The Duke of Hertfordshire’. I believe the Duke of York will suffice.”

“The Duke of York?”

“The Duke of York?”

Her husband and her Prime Minister – though now different men – talked in unison. She shrugged.

“Yes. I don’t see why not.”

Lord Melbourne turned a hesitant gaze to Sir Robert, a plea for help. Sir Robert, forced into the situation much against his will or better judgement, took it upon himself to explain,

“The title of the Duke of York has always been awarded to the monarch’s second son,” Sir Robert said, appealing to the Queen in the best way he could when, in fact, the flailing of his arms made the speech seem like a pantomime. And, besides, the Queen was not for persuading.

“Yes. But, as you said, Sir Robert, these are extraordinary circumstances. And my husband is the most important man in court, as far as I am concerned, and therefore he should have the most important title after my son, who is my heir and will of course gain the duchy of Cornwall. If my husband cannot father my heirs nor inherit the crown, he can at least have a title worthy of his position. And, more importantly, worthy my deepest dependency on him!”

“My love-“ Lord Melbourne began, approaching his wife, before she turned on him and, quite resolved and quite frightening she said,

“I am quite decided, husband. You will be the Duke of York. I assure you will inform Parliament of this, Sir Robert.”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

“Thank you. You may leave us.”

He did so, flustered, and tired and stressed, but holding his wife in his mind’s eye and trying his best to take comfort from her. Meanwhile, Lord Melbourne stood in front of the Queen, laughing silently, and she was becoming quite hot at this situation,

“What are you laughing at?” she asked, looking him up and down and fighting the unwanted smile that was curling her lips. “You are being quite rude!”

“I thought Sir Robert would faint!”

“What? Why? I do not see how it is unreasonable of me!”

“The Duke of York? Me? A former Whig Prime Minister? It isn’t the safest of moves, my dearest,” he said, still smiling though he knew once he would be deeply moved by the situation. He held out one hand and she took it from him, pressing the hand against her bosom so he could feel her heartbeat. He could feel it – thumping hard and fast – and he could feel the warmth of her hands and her body. Oh, she was magnificent. She was insane, but he loved her so much.

“You will make a most dashing Duke.”

“I am not a dashing Viscount?”

“Not at all.”

Before she could say another word, he had kissed her and, with the kiss, he had drawn all the fire from her lungs and the air from her windpipe until she was heartless and breathless, quite belonging to him. Her body slumped into him and, as he pulled away, he found he needed to clasp two hands onto her shoulders to prevent her from falling over.

The Duke of York, William thought. Why not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for all the lovely feedback so far - and I hope you enjoy this chapter! As always, comments are greatly appreciated!


	3. Poinsettia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A portrait and a party. And a title disputed.

“I think it will look ridiculous,” she said, trying to stand as still as possible, but finding the position she had picked, lifting her neck in such a way as to elongate it, and resting her hand elegantly along the curve of her skirt. She had wished to look like Aphrodite, or a similar Greek or Roman deity, marble and soft, all smooth lines and curves, gentle and ever-moving. She knew very well she was small with a round face and not much of a chin, but she was intent on looking her very best in this portrait. She had seen some ghastly pieces of work. Artists had given her three chins, and she had been most displeased, offended, and never asked them to paint for her again. Not too long ago, she had been made to look intolerably miserable when, she knew, she had not looked nearly as melancholy when she was being painted. She wanted very much for this one to be different and, so, was quite taken aback when William was making recommendations of his own as to the composition, quite different from what she had imagined, lying awake in bed every night for the week prior to that.

“Of course not. I insist. You are the Queen, after all.”

“But you are my husband.”

“That is why I am holding your hand.”

He had insisted that she stand, slightly in the foreground, whilst he sat, behind her, looking towards her whilst she looks forward. She did not know that William had – or thought he had – such panache for the world of portrait painting. In her mind, he knew nothing of it at all, and she should know better, having had her portrait painted countless times before. But she conceded. So, he sat, with his stepson and stepdaughter at his feet, and his daughter in the crook of his elbow, keeping his other hand free, so that his wife could hold it whilst she stood, grander and statelier than he. Lord Melbourne was very particular that, despite being her husband, he did not appear to over assert himself, and that she remained the focus of the piece. That was only right. She was the royal, after all.

He wanted to be facing her in the portrait, looking up towards where the light came into the painting, streams of it, white ribbons almost trimmed in silver thread, and finding her face there shrouded in the daylight. She did not need to look at him. For him to look to her would be enough. His Aphrodite.

She was wearing her wedding dress – filling out the Bertha collar more fully than she had done before, her chignons fitting her womanhood, elongating her elegance, and the silk beside the gold thread shone in opulence that haloed her face like a divine creature. Her halo, in reality, being the gardenias that her husband had grown for her.

As he looked to her, he could only think one thing: I love you, I love you, I love you.

The painter was not entirely happy that the royal couple had decided to talk during his work, but he felt he could not call them out. He continued, wincing as they laughed at each other’s jokes.

When the children became too restless, the artist felt that he could continue his work without them present for the time being, and excused them, at which point Sir Robert Peel, overseeing the process, dipping in and out of the room as one does a cold stream, approached Lord Melbourne and called him aside. William noticed something strangely delicate in his manner. He did not seem entirely comfortable and, so, he followed the man out of the room and into the corridor. Victoria, quite absorbed in overlooking the portrait with Harriet Sutherland, did not mind his going.

Once the door was closed, and the corridor had become a locked vault in which Robert Peel felt safe in confidence, he decided to speak. William felt himself shivering, and did not remember the palace ever being quite so cold. It was like a tomb.

“Lord Melbourne, I apologise for taking you by surprise like this, but I felt I must discuss this matter in private with you. I have conferred with Parliament regarding the title you will be given. And, well, you see, it is customary for the second son of the monarch to harbour the title the Duke of York and, well, Parliament will not concede easily as I’m sure you remember. It does not look hopeful that they will allow it.”

“I understand,” William replied, pensive, biting his lip. Robert Peel let out a sigh of relief,

“Yes, and I know it will be far more favourable within the house if you were to take another title.”

William nodded. He knew this, of course. He was a politician himself and he knew, if he were not the Queen’s husband and simply a minister, he would never allow it. Lord, he would fight such monarchical supremacy with every breath he could spare in the chamber.

It was a week later when a dinner to celebrate the Christmas season (Victoria’s favourite time of year) would announce William Lamb in his new title, and Victoria was thrilled when she thought of her husband as the Duke of York. What a fine title! What a handsome place! She would be so proud to call him that, hear him being called that, and show him off to the court and country.

She decided to wear crimson. It was, after all, almost Christmas, and she thought the colour was most festive, and warmer than some of her other dresses, which were made mostly of shining pale blues and light pinks. And in her hair, she wore poinsettia flowers, shining red against her dark coils and braids. Rubies adorned her neck, and her cheeks were pink, as if she had been out in the snow. She felt altogether very merry and very beautiful and, descending the staircase to her husband awaiting her, she glowed. He, too, had embellishments of red to his clothing, and so they matched like a perfect pair, behind the closed door, breathing fast and beating, waiting for the doors to be unlatched and thrown open for them to greet their guests.

And, so, they did, approaching arm in arm, before the doors were parted like curtains to the golden morn, and the golden faces of golden people were unveiled to them, and the herald, velvet-voiced, cried,

“Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, and the Duke of Hertfordshire.”

Something akin to a laugh almost caught in Victoria’s throat which seized violently upon hearing it, as if the words had plucked her like the string of an instrument and then she stood, tensed, reeling, but making no sound at all. And then, as if her actions were dictated, like they are in a dream, not one’s own actions, she turned to her husband who, unflinchingly, accepted the title as his own. He had not the shock she was feeling. And he stepped forward whilst she hung back. Not able to move. Being left behind like a rowing boat caught back on the waves, rocking the wrong way with the shore retreating into the horizon. No, she told herself, shaking away her fear, this was a simple mistake. Keeping her husband’s arm wound around hers, stretched now that he was in front of her, she leant over to the herald and, politely, said,

“I think there’s been some confusion. My husband is the Duke of York.” Her voice was all naivety and Lord Melbourne, who heard her query, felt his organs sink like lead but, as if his tongue too was one of their number, he could not say a word. He stepped back, to be on the same level as the Queen.

“I apologise, your Majesty, but I was told by the Prime Minister-“

Answering a summons, the familiar face of Robert Peel, private, whispering, appeared and, softly, told the Queen,

“Lord Melbourne has agreed to his title as the Duke of Hertfordshire.”

Blank-faced and wide-eyed she stood until the tears came. Beaten back like the rowing boat as not to let a single person see, but she felt them. And, with that torrent of feeling came the realisation that everyone’s eyes were on her. They were waiting for her to enter. Why would she not enter? She turned, pathetically, feeling less like the woman in red and more like the little girl out of her depth in her mama’s clothing, and said to him,

“Is this true, William?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, and the desperation in her eyes made William’s blood run cold, so cold it made his veins frostbitten. Swallowing his pride, remembering himself, he replied,

“Yes, my darling.”

She turned back to the herald, to Sir Robert, to William, and to the room, finally, full of golden faces that were quickly losing their glow, and the grey of confusion, of doubt, was overcoming them. She was forced into movement. She was being pushed along by the tide. And she walked with the Duke of Hertfordshire into the room, which was turning gold again. She could see it through a window: the gold, something between a sunrise and a sunset, between the gilded halls of Versailles and the dew on the bark of sun-bitten willows, between a tiger’s eye and trim of a precious stone. But all through a window, separated from her so if she tried to touch it she would only feel a cold pane of glass and none of its warmth. And, herself, she was not gold at all. Not even silver though some may perceive it as such. Pewter, perhaps. Pewter wrapped in crimson.

And William – golden – tried very hard to gild his wife. To direct the stars towards her, but without success, and so he watched her over his dinner, muscles taut, knowing very well he had done something she had not liked at all, but he was unable to regret it. And, as the golden sun sank and the sky turned dark, the guests left and took their chance in the bitter December with a strange feeling in their hearts that something wasn’t right, but unable to put their mind to what it was. The winter wind, however icy, seemed preferable to the palace which was stiflingly hot. But in the stifling hot, William and Victoria remained. William, sweating around his necktie which was rubbing a line across his neck, like a guide for the guillotine he was sure she would subject him to. The rubbing was causing him grief, and he was tugging at his necktie almost ceaselessly, silently save his sighs and mutters when the pain continued. Eventually, unable to stand it any longer, Victoria, who was stood at the window watching the guests’ carriages leave, swivelled, and cried out,

“You embarrassed me!”

“What?” William replied, shaken by her exclamation, and still concerned with the chafing of his collar.

“I said you were to be the Duke of York!” she said, most upset, like a petulant child, “And yet my husband is the Duke of Nothing-shire!” William laughed. Victoria saw it as mocking. It only made her blood run hotter. And, yet, he still laughed,

“You can hardly say Hertfordshire is nothing, Victoria.”

“But you are second in the land!”

“Second in the land? That was not the bargain struck with Robert Peel!”

It was her turn to laugh. Which she did, advancing on him, engaged in a fencing match.

“When did you care so much about Robert Peel?” she asked, raising her chin higher. “Do you care more about appeasing the Tories than pleasing your wife?” William’s blood had gained heat now, feeding from the fight, and catching flames. His breath heaved his shoulders and, quickly, nodding at the ground, he gasped,

“Yes.”

Victoria fell numb. Anaesthetised. Disbelief struck her across the face. Tilting her head to one side, furrowing her brows, she muttered,

“William… how…?”

“Our marriage sits on a wire!” His hands were outstretched. He spoke with his hands when he was explaining something to her. A tactic for a little girl. Condescending. “The smallest gust of wind, the littlest breath of scandal, could send this whole life we’ve built for ourselves crashing down again! You must understand that, Ma’am!” His words caught in his throat. His body rejected what his mouth uttered. The word clunked into the room, and fell heavily in the air, disjointed like a puzzle piece where it didn’t belong.

“Ma’am? After all this time?”

“It was a mistake, Victoria. Habit.”

“You will not think of me as your wife. I am always the Queen, first, then your bride! The mother of your child! Why are you so blind to her?” she cried, banishing the tears that threatened to rise in her.

“I am not, my love.” Don’t call me that. “But you must understand how important this is!”

“Why must you always talk to me like you are my tutor and I am some innocent little girl with the world to learn?”

“Because you treat this like a game!”

“Our marriage?”

“The crown.”

“I treat the crown like a game?”

“You do not understand how important your position is! And how it cannot be compromised on a whim. There are rules put in place that must be abided by.”

“Why does everyone think I don’t understand?” she asked, throwing her hands up.

“We took great liberties in marrying in the first place. I was a Whig Prime Minister, you must not forget that. We have taken a great risk in making the crown appear partial.” He was speaking like a politician. Always the politician. Never able to leave it behind. Good God, he was infuriating. She wanted a husband – not a Prime Minister.

“You sound like you regret ever having married me,” her voice suddenly had no emotion at all. Simply cold. Like running white knuckles along stone until the skin comes away.

“I never said that,” he replied, firmly. Earnest. His gaze bore into her, not the ground as it had done, but her, and he would not turn the gaze away until she believed what he spoke. He looked up through his brows and the shadows across his bones. “I could not bear to be so alone again.” And he meant it. The cracking of his voice told her that. The age that became so clearly defined in the hollows of his cheeks told her that. The tired eyes told her that and the emotions they held. “That is why I am so afraid. How could you bear to be so alone again?”

She could not. She could not bear it. But neither could she bear living her marriage in half-measures. It was like weaving a tapestry, and every day picking it out again. Pulling russet threads back through holes until paths lost their way and rivers ran dry and the world itself stopped existing. Every day they would sew a paradise, and every night they would see it bare itself.

“You would have the crown interfere with our family?”

“Yes.” Honest. “I would.”

“How can you be so heartless?”

“Heartless?” he said, growing angrier by the minute. How could she not understand that all he did he did out of concern for her? “Is it heartlessness to do everything in my power to protect the oath we swore to one another? To keep you as my wife?”

“I will not have us tiptoe around ministers!” she said, growing angrier by the minute. How could he not understand that all she did she did out of concern for him?

“I would sooner stop breathing than lose you!”

A softer moment. A gasp. Love, and passion. Then stone cold. Knuckles up against the stone.

“Perhaps, then, you will begin to trust me.”

His mouth opened to soundlessness. And her steps thundered to fill the gap with noise. And the room became his, alone, to breathe into.

Vicky and Edward were now lying awake in their beds so the whites of their eyes made stars in the darkness, listening to their parents arguing, holding their bedsheets up around their faces. And Alice was being catered to by a nanny, as the noise had set her off crying. William could hear his children cry.

Nancy Skerrett, not expecting to be called upon again tonight, when awoken from her mattress downstairs, was drowsy. It had become the habit – on nights of events and parties – that Lord Melbourne would undress the Queen himself, and so she would not be needed until early in the morning when the scattered clothing would be picked carefully from the floor and tidily put away. She was in a dream that she was finding highly agreeable – involving a certain moustachioed chef – and being awoken was frustrating. But, if the Queen of England calls, she must be heeded urgently. Throwing her quilt to the ground, she quickly sprung from her bed, trying not to heed the cold which could become so potent downstairs in the palace at this time of night. There was only a little light in the room coming from the window, and so she quickly and clumsily lit a candle and still she had to strain her eyes to see. Feeling around for her woollen dress, she fumbled into it, fixing her hair as best she could, and blinking rapidly to wake herself up, and then, taking a lantern to light her way as the servants’ quarters were very dark by now, she hurried to the Queen.

She found Queen Victoria distracted, angry, but requesting a bath. Skerrett, obedient despite her better judgement, prepared the bath for the Queen and tended to her once she had rid her of the crimson gown and her corset and underclothes, and taken the pins and flowers from her hair until it tumbled down her back. Skerrett always felt strangely thrilled to see the Queen completely unbound, for she knew no one saw her quite like this except for her and the Queen’s husband. It was an honour, to see her completely unbound and exposed. And, although she would never tell another soul of what she felt, she enjoyed seeing the Queen with her hair on her naked shoulders, sitting in the bath, surrounded by the warm water, deep in thought.

She poured jugs of water over the Queen’s head, her hair darkening as it took on water and clumping into a straight waterfall around her face. She was not happy, neither did she look entirely healthy. Skerrett was far too tired to make small talk but she felt sure that the Queen was not in the mood for it, even if Skerrett were feeling more perky. Into her hair, Skerrett massaged fragrant oils, that would also perfume Skerrett’s hands for the following day, and she could feel her mistress finally relax a little, and finally she talked,

“I do not feel so well today.”

“Really, Ma’am?” Skerrett asked, supressing a yawn with all her might, “You looked very well earlier on.” It was not politeness that made Nancy say this – whatever sickness the Queen was confessing to must have taken hold very quickly. Victoria was surprised herself with the speed of this queasiness.

“I feel sick.”

“Ma’am?” Looking at the Queen, Skerrett could see that her colour was greenish. “Do you wish for me to call a doctor?”

“No! No, that won’t be necessary. It’s just…” Suddenly overcome with the dizziness, Victoria swayed before clinging with a fist to the edge of the bathtub. Skerrett, sensing danger of the Queen fainting, took her shoulders to keep her from falling into the water, and pulled her from the bath, gently, getting her into her nightgown so she was decent, not having the time to dry her. Nancy sat the Queen down on her bed, and placed a hand on her forehead. She did not feel feverish, but was a little hot and tacky with a fresh sweat. Victoria had a distant look, staring into the middle distance, until she finally sighed,

“Fetch me the chamber pot.”

Not a moment was wasted and Skerrett dived beneath the bed to grab the chamber pot which was handed to the Queen just in time for her to retch and be sick in the pot. Skerrett watched.

She was not fearful of a sickness, but wary of what this might herald.

The Queen felt quite recovered, and Skerrett stayed with her until she seemed settled in bed. She did not ask why her husband was not with her tonight. It was none of her business, as only a maid. Once the Queen was half-asleep, Skerrett cleaned the chamber pot, and replaced it, before heading back downstairs to return gratefully to her sleep.

The warmth of the Queen’s room made the arrival in the catacomb of the servants’ quarters blunter, and Skerrett shivered on the path back to her room. She was very happy to be going back to sleep, though.

“It’s late, Miss Skerrett.”

She knew that voice, and had to stifle a smirk upon hearing it. Turning, keeping her voice low, she replied,

“The Queen requested a bath.”

“A long bath.”

“Are you keeping tabs on me, Mr Francatelli?” she asked, raising her eyebrows, and crossing her arms over her chest. Francatelli grinned in the lowlight, chuckling at her fancy. Nancy could not help her mind wandering to how handsome he looked in the candlelight.

“Only out of concern.”

“In truth, the Queen became quite sick,” Nancy whispered, afraid that they might be overheard, but not able to resist indulging Mr Francatelli in the information. Leaning in so his breath could be felt on Nancy’s skin, he replied,

“Sick? How so?”

“I could not be sure. But it came upon her very suddenly.”

“Violently?”

“I suppose so.”

Both minds were filled with the same idea, and both did not know how to feel about being the first to play with this information. As far as they knew, of course.

“You don’t think she’s…?” Francatelli asked, oddly excited.

“As I said, I cannot be sure. But-“

“Is it possible?”

“What do you mean?” Nancy asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Well… I mean… have they been active?”

“Mr Francatelli!” Nancy replied, too loudly for this hour, outraged (but rather humoured).

“You are the Queen’s dresser! Surely you know!” Francatelli laughed.

“No. I do not.” He gave her a look that, even in the darkness, she understood perfectly well. “I mean, I think they have been as active as man and wife can be.” The look intensified. “They have not been careful about it, let me put it that way. Mr Francatelli, you are incorrigible! This is not appropriate at all!” If it were not so dark, Francatelli would see that Nancy was bright red with blushing.

“Does she know?”

“We do not know whether she is!”

“But has she a suspicion?”

“I do not know. I think not.”

“Will you tell her?”

“I am just her dresser! What would I say?” she laughed, rubbing her tired eyes. “And, besides, I do not think the Queen and Lord Melbourne are on the best terms. He has not come to bed,” Skerrett paused, before realising her impropriety, “Mr Francatelli, you are encouraging me to be a gossip!”

“Not on the best terms?”

“I do not know anything about it. I should not even be telling you about it! You are just the chef, you should have no interest in the goings on of the royal marriage."

"Neither should you. You just dress her."

"Don't be so cheeky. Why are you up so late? You should be going to bed!” she scolded, unable to keep herself from laughter. She hated how he could make her laugh so easily.

“I could not sleep.”

“No?”

“Dreams.”

Ah, yes. She had been having dreams, too. She wondered whether they were the same dreams. She hoped they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marriage isn't all sunshine and roses. Thank you as always for your lovely feedback and it's always welcome - I hope you've enjoyed this update!


	4. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is Christmas. And marriage is taught its lessons.

“It is snowing outside, Ma’am! We may have a white Christmas yet!” Skerrett cheered, drawing the curtains for a waking monarch, alone in her bed, blinking at her maid in the white light that had spilled in all too quickly, making the dust itself look like the snowfall in her mind’s eye. Regaining herself, she smiled, and replied,

“I hope so.”

“How are you feeling this morning, Ma’am?”

“Well, thank you, Skerrett.”

It had only been three days since the first incident of nausea, and Skerrett was keeping herself alert, preparing herself almost every minute for one of two things: either another quick dash for the chamber pot, or the reaction to the news of the Queen’s pregnancy. Neither came. A few dizzy spells, only a few, came over the course of the three days, and no news. From what Skerrett could understand, the Queen was hardly even aware of the cause of these symptoms which, to Skerrett, were clear as day and the snow. Perhaps she was only so acutely aware of them because of her time in the brothel. She had seen many a lovely girl come down very sick.

Another aspect of the Queen’s life to which Skerrett had become acutely aware was the fact that the Queen’s husband had not come to bed these past three nights. In the daytime, whilst they talked and conducted business, they were not amiable towards each other. She felt improper to even dwell on matters of the royal household but, yet, when one is privy to the Queen’s bedchamber, one cannot help but discover these things, and then the mind cannot help but play with the information. Skerrett was a girl of the world – she knew the scuffles that a marriage can hold. Far better, she believed, than the Queen would, sheltered in a gilded bubble (Kensington, then Buckingham). What Lord Melbourne may have believed to be a trifle, Victoria may believe to be an earthquake. With all the ferocity of Pompeii, perhaps.

But she must not let her mind wander.

Victoria was meeting with Sir Robert Peel this morning and, so, once she had prised herself from her sheets, she allowed Skerrett to prepare her for the day. Lacing her corset with deft fingers, hairpins in her mouth, Nancy worked expertly. Victoria chose the blue dress. Lord Melbourne had once said that he thought blue was an unlucky colour – and that women should not wear blue. Very good, she thought, blue it was. And blue it would be. Inspecting herself in the mirror, having the final pins scraped into her hair, Victoria gleaned a smile from herself, and brushed hands down her satin skirt. She was unhappy with the placement of it. But Sir Robert wasn’t one to mind, or notice.

Skerrett, however, had a keen eye and noticed how the smile on her Majesty’s face had to be wrestled from the knots of her expression and, stealing herself, she asked,

“Are you sure you are well, Ma’am?”

Victoria paused.

“I miss Brocket,” she replied, simply. Skerrett’s grip on the pin she was handling loosened, as did her lips, and her eyes became wide as she looked at her Queen through the reflection of the mirror. The Queen had bared herself, open and vulnerable, and Skerrett no longer saw her as a Queen but, instead, as a woman of her years who had just as many foibles and failings as she did. At the brothel, Skerrett would hug girls like that. She would take helpless girls by the hands, turn her head down to look them in the eye, open them up like rose petals beneath thumbprints with words as sweet as the springtime, and then take them into her arms as they cried. She would shush and kiss their hair until it tickled her nose. And she wanted to do the same thing now, to Victoria. But, of course, she could not.

“You have barely been at Buckingham for a month, Ma’am. It is natural to take a little time to settle.” And, as she spoke, she resumed her pinning.

“I think I had become so used to being a wife, that I had forgotten what it was to be Queen.”

When Skerrett looked back to the Queen, she noticed that her gaze was fixed on the ground, and she could imagine tears in her eyes.

“I may be simple, Ma’am, but I think it is more important for you to be a woman than to be a Queen.”

Her eyes turned up and met Skerrett’s in the mirror.

“You mean that?”

“Yes. And, though I cannot confess to know the man as well as you, I think Lord Melbourne would agree with that.”

Her eyes turned down again.

“I wish that were true.”

Sir Robert called. The Queen was taken away from Skerrett. But, leaving the room, she turned very quickly and asked,

“What is your name?”

“Skerrett, Ma’am.”

“No, I know that, of course. I meant your given name,” Victoria laughed. Skerrett could feel the burn of a blush on her cheeks as she meekly turned her gaze to her feet and, curtsying, replied,

“Nancy. Ma’am.”

“Nancy. Thank you, Nancy.”

Sir Robert awaited her in the hall, and she approached him with an outstretched hand which, when he turned and saw her, he knelt to kiss.

“Sir Robert,” she said, happily, as he kissed the hand she had bared for him, “Merry Christmas Eve.”

“Many happy returns, your Majesty,” Sir Robert replied, standing up. And together they went to the sitting room where they would go through the despatches for the final time before the Christmas season, when her duties would pause. As it was Christmas Eve, Victoria found that the pile of papers was thinner than usual, and it did not take the pair long to work through them. They talked of the weather, which had made a visible impression in the damp of Sir Robert’s shoulders where the snow had melted. Victoria amused herself through a particularly boring paper with the thought of Sir Robert looking like a snowman – little things like that still brought the Queen a little giggle now and then. Once the despatches were done, Sir Robert, absent-mindedly with the intention only to make gentle conversation asked,

“Will there be a celebration of the season tonight, Ma’am?”

“No, Sir Robert,” Victoria replied, quite harshly.

“Oh, why ever not? I know that your Majesty is very fond of the Christmas season.”

“Not tonight, Sir Robert.”

The bristling in the air at first was alien to Sir Robert, and inspired in him nothing but confusion. He was quite ready to pass the whole thing over as peculiar but nothing to dwell on when, with a great shock, he realised why the Queen was not having a celebration.

“How is Lord Melbourne?” Hesitant.

“I think you mean the Duke of Hertfordshire.” Definitive.

Sir Robert weaned his sigh.

“You must understand, Ma’am, that the title of the Duke of York implies the status to inherit – a royal dukedom! When it was expressly agreed between Parliament and yourself that neither Lord Melbourne nor his offspring could ever inherit the throne.”

“I know that!”

“Then you understand that he could not have been the Duke of York.”

“A simply title does not give him rights to which he is not entitled!” Victoria cried, standing up and fleeing to the window, where the light air made her feel secure. Out of the smoggy shadows that Sir Robert seemed to control with a fist. “It would mean nothing!”

“But people wonder. People talk. Before you know it, people will assume that the former Whig Prime Minister is on the path to take the English crown.”

Half-laughing, Victoria replied with scorn,

“What is it with you ‘politicians’ and being so afraid of talk?”

“I believe the Duke of Wellington said to me once that talk can do far more damage to a man than the whole world’s galleys – the same goes for a woman, I expect, particularly a Queen.”

On this, Victoria seemed to calm. The Duke of Wellington – she knew – was a wise man, and pragmatic, and had the best interests of all in his heart. She would trust him, if no other man. So, brushing the skirts of her dress with her hands and pulling her spine out straighter, she walked back over to Sir Robert and, still not allowing herself to sit, said, sadly,

“I just wish he had told me before.”

“Your Majesty, I am a married man, and I have been for some years now, quite happily. And, though I am a husband and therefore cannot confess to understand the position of wife, I can say to you that, to prosper in your match, it is wise to understand that people can be very short-sighted. Your husband can, and so can you.”

“That could be heresy, Sir Robert.” Her smile gave her away, though it was only slight. A rare forwardness caught wind in Sir Robert’s lungs.

“No, Ma’am, that could be helpful advice.”

“I am just so angry with him.”

“Understandably. But Lord Melbourne did not do it to spite you, I am sure. He only acted in the interests of the crown.”

Sad, again, sighing, her eyes gained the weight of tears which pulled them to the ground. Forlorn swain.

“What of _my_ interests?”

“You are the crown.”

“I am not. The woman he married is not. He cannot separate us. No one can.”

“Marriage is not easy, your Majesty. And it is still in its infancy. I am afraid that the throne may provide excess strain on it – but, if you love him which I know that you do, then it will endure.”

Sir Robert was a wise man. Not only that, but Victoria felt oddly guilty. He had put his career on the line to allow them this marriage which had been so dear to them and, now, she was complaining of it. He must think her frightfully fickle. In reality, Sir Robert thought far from it – and he was glad. He was glad that the marriage was genuine. Two lovers who never quarrel are not truly in love – but infatuated, or bored – but Victoria and William must be truly in love to quarrel over something so trivial. That is a married life. Inexplicable disagreements that seem to strange to the outside world. Like curiosities in a circus, one may ogle at the argument, and gossip about its source, but only the creature itself understands the breaths it takes and the timbre of its heartbeat.

“Are you quite sure, Sir Robert?”

“I am often unsure, Ma’am. But, on this, I am positive.”

“Then what do you advise I do?”

“That, Ma’am, is your choice.”

When Sir Robert left, Victoria sat alone, and left herself to her thoughts. She knew, very well, that people may perceive her actions as rash, or childish. She was sure that everyone thought she was reacting simply to the fact that her husband was not the Duke of York, but instead the Duke of Hertfordshire. This was not true at all. Yes, it had grieved her, but that was not what made her spurn him, and cancel her Christmas celebrations, and make the very thought of him bubble her blood. It was the lack of trust in her it showed. He had not trusted her enough to consult her but, more importantly, he had not trusted her to come to her own decisions as monarch. He had decided himself that Duke of York was unwise.

He had minced around ministers as he once did before they were married!

The thought of it now almost made her scream!

She wanted him to act by her whims, to come up with his own whims and follow them through, to act rashly, to dare. She wanted him to trust her, to believe in her. She wanted him to forget about Queen and country and crown and throne and all that pomp and ceremony and just be a husband to her.

He had been that husband at Brocket. But it seemed he could not be that husband at Buckingham. Buckingham brought out the politician in him.

But Sir Robert was so wise. And Sir Robert seemed to think the best of him. And what need did Sir Robert have to lie? And why would Sir Robert think well of a former Whig unless it were true?

Oh, marriage is not easy, she thought. Of course, it would never be easy. That was never the bargain.

Christmas Eve passed itself into evening and then into night, with the palace calling out for celebrations that never exploded, and cheering and laughter that never sounded. No trumpets or fireworks. Christmas Eve passed into night silently, but beautifully. And Victoria, spending the hours alone with only her thoughts for company, found herself quite decided. And, with decision, came joy. And, with joy, came love.

And, with love, she crept downstairs when all were in bed. And she sought out her husband.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered, the late hour reducing her voice to the meekness of a mouse and yet, still, William thought, it had the power of a monarch beneath it. He was surprised to see her, peering around the doorframe, both her hands clasping resting on the frame like the trunk of a great oak, which she leant against, watching him, with a shy smile. “I was wondering where you were spending your nights.”

“I have spent my evenings with the children. And my nights here.”

The children were in bed now, though it was true he did spend the evenings with them. He was sure to read them books, and he gathered Vicky and Edward around him, reading to them from the leaves of storybooks, and watching their shining faces, pliable as wax, changing as the moon, and intent. William was very good at reading stories: he would do voices for the different characters, and emote wonderfully, and his voice was so rough that it had a sonorous quality, like an instrument, calming in a strange sense. Alice would be close by, sleeping through the story, but happily dreaming of stories untold. Edward would play with William’s hand as he spoke, moving the fingers with his own fingers – quite amazed by the size of the hand. It was so much bigger than his hand, and coarser, and darker. Once the story was told, he put them to bed. And there he was now. He was sat on the armchair in the sitting room by candlelight. The armchair was the closest one he could find in the palace to his favourite chair at Brocket Hall – it did not have the signs of age that his original chair had, nor the same colouring (for his was red and, this one, blue) but he was still fond of how he sunk into it. It felt like home. And he was wearing his dressing gown, looking delightfully cosy by Victoria’s eyes, and very handsome. It made her feel warm.

“And I believe your wishes are premature,” he said, rubbing a tired eye, and sitting up straighter, to view her better, to show he was listening, “It is still Christmas Eve.”

“Not for very much longer,” she smiled.

“No.” He smiled back. It lit her up, and for the first time she felt truly festive. There was that same happy stillness between them that there had been when they first arrived at Buckingham. That same stillness that the night warrants, making vaults of the rooms to which only their hushed voices and heartbeats can disturb. The court was so busy, London so loud, that they had missed this silence. This hush. Taking her heart in her hand, ready to lay it out before him, she said,

“I have missed you.” A teary look glazed his eye and, almost ashamedly, he looked down to his own hands clasped in his lap before uttering, 

“I decided it best to leave you alone.”

She rested the side of her head against the doorframe, looking sympathetically at him.

“And what if I had wanted you to apologise?”

“I needed time to think,” he replied.

“And what have you learnt?” she breathed.

“That I miss you too.” Her heart beat its wings and she could feel the air they pushed emerge as a sigh from her lips. “And that I am sorry for not telling you. It was selfish of me-”

“No. I am the one who is sorry!” she cried, moving with light bare feet towards his armchair, and perching herself on the arm, seizing his hand in her own, “I think, though it grieves me, that you are quite right, William.”

“How’s that,” he began, turning his gaze up to her, “Victoria?”

“I must be a Queen, and behave accordingly, and only behind the shut door must I allow myself to be your wife,” she said, weaving their fingers together. She felt his hand tense, and looked to him for a reason. He seemed earnest.

“If you don’t mind me saying, Victoria: I believe your conclusion is false.”

“How so?” she asked, upset.

“You must be a Queen, yes, and behave accordingly.” His voice was soft and low like the candlelight. “But you are always my wife. As a Queen and as a woman.”

He took up her hand and, never once breaking her gaze, lifted it to his mouth where he placed a gentle kiss on her fingers. Then, with his own touch, he traced the veins across the back of her hand as one runs a hand along chipped paint, mourning something lost that the wall did not notice the loss of. And then the palm running over hers seemed to paint her again.

As his fingertips found her wrist, the clock struck twelve with an irrevocable chime, echoing through the vault and the empty chambers of William and Victoria’s bodies, igniting the space between them. Victoria’s eyes caught the candlelight and something akin to a star, but golden, caught in the corner of her eyes, which were now large and sparkling, and a smile heralded her words,

“Merry Christmas.”

As he placed a kiss on her nose, Victoria breathed the scent of him and found her other half within it. She lowered herself on to his lap. His hands sought out her waist, and hooked there, anchoring himself to her against the bucking storm. Their faces were so close that, to look at her, William’s eyes were almost closed, and his eyelashes could almost have brushed her skin. Victoria’s frame hollowed, breath swept away from it.

When would their love cease to make them breathless?

She weaved a hand into the curls over his forehead, pushing them back and, turning the hair around her fingers, she drew his face closer to her, and their cheeks nuzzled, and they were entirely noiseless. Victoria felt their child in her womb. She knew it. But did not disturb the silence to speak of it.

She soon fell asleep there, so quickly that William was talking to her when he noticed the depth of her breathing, whistling through her nose, and her heavy lids over her eyes. Contented, he turned his gaze to the window, over which the curtains had not been drawn and, although it was dark, he could see snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to go into too much Christmas detail - as it's not very seasonal, so the next chapter will jump forward in time a bit! I hope you enjoyed the first bump in their marriage, and your comments are always appreciated!


	5. Brighton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Royal couple go to Brighton.

Nancy Skerrett was preparing the Queen’s luggage, for she was due to spend the next week in Brighton. The Queen had never visited the Royal Pavilion before and therefore never directly greeted her people who lived there – which she thought very lazy of her – and she was also quite charmed with the idea of the seaside. She could already feel the whipping sea air, thick with salt, coating her lips which would taste briny for days after. She could feel the tide drawing through her toes. On business, this was a Royal visit to the city of Brighton where the new portrait of the Queen and her husband would be unveiled. For family, this was a holiday, and an exciting one at that.

But Nancy Skerrett, whilst assembling the dresses that the Queen would take with her (assuming that, when she returned, there may be a good deal more dresses to closet away), was sure to only include the dresses that were of a looser fit – on the Queen’s express instructions. Nancy, of course, knew why the Queen asked her to do such a thing, but the surprise came from how she was still trying to hide it. Being the Queen’s dresser, Skerrett had noticed a bump forming, though still small, over the lady’s womb, and it would be a great surprise to her if her husband had not noticed it too. But, presumably, Skerrett thought as she picked a loose russet gown from the wardrobe, he hadn’t, and therefore, for some reason unbeknownst to her, the Queen was not willing to let him know just yet.

Of course, it was not her place to wonder. But, with such strange circumstances, one could not help but wonder.

Surely, Skerrett thought, preparing the last of the royal wardrobe, when he sees her loose-fitting gowns, he must come to some conclusion as to his wife’s situation. If the fainting spells, the dizziness and the loss of appetite weren’t already sure signs. For a man of his years, Lord Melbourne was hopeless. Skerrett couldn’t help giggling to herself – alone in the Queen’s chamber – when she thought on it.

Emma and Harriet, too, were joining the royal procession to Brighton, to spend the week in pleasant company with the monarch and her husband. Lady Emma had visited the Royal Pavilion only once before, only briefly, but had found the whole affair very grand and very beautiful. She could not say she liked all aspects of the late King George IV (Prince Regent, as he was) but she could not deny he had a fine eye for decadence. And Lady Emma, though not one for unrestrained decadence as some are, could enjoy it in weekly doses. Harriet, ever fashionable, could barely restrain her beaming grin at the thought of spending the week at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton. She was partial to the Brighton air. It would be quite splendid – they were both sure.

Mama was not invited, despite Lord Melbourne’s efforts to persuade his wife to allow her to come, she was left at Buckingham.

They left on the Sunday afternoon - they would return that same time one week later - and there was a long line of carriages leaving Buckingham Palace, Queen Victoria and the Duke of Hertfordshire, Lord Melbourne, on the very front carriage, with their children, staring wide-eyed from the windows for sight of the sea.

When arriving, expecting the sea, there were great golden domes that reminded Victoria uncannily of onions, and windows circling around them, palm trees blocking out the light, and flowers of vibrant colours – like the tropics. In the Indian style, bulbous and pale against the jarring blue sky, oddly gaudy. Like outstretched arms in a foreign prayer, great white pillars jutted unevenly into the air, stabbing clouds like wonton boys in the playground, and Victoria, exiting her carriage to an entourage of crazed faces, wasn’t feeling particularly spellbound by Brighton.

“I cannot see the sea from here,” she remarked to Harriet Sutherland, close in the lady’s ear, trying to bend her words around the ringlets she had styled to frame her striking features.

“No, Ma’am, the sea is a little way from here,” Harriet replied, chirpily.

“Who in their right mind builds a palace in Brighton so far from the sea?” Victoria huffed, pulling her shawl tighter around her arms. She glanced over to her husband, to see if he was equally unimpressed, but was distressed to see him walking along the path in quite animated conversation with Emma Portman, appreciating those ghastly pillars.

“Don’t you think the pillars are nice, your Majesty? They are quite the fashionable thing!” Harriet remarked, stopping suddenly, and pointing to where she felt the Queen should look. The Queen did not, however, believe that she should look there, and so she did not.

“I do not think they are particularly pleasing.”

“No, Ma’am? Well, I am sure you will find the interior more to your liking!”

Queen Victoria did not find the interior more to her liking.

“Why is there so much faux bamboo?” she asked her husband, climbing a staircase, her hand dragging along a railing of faux bamboo. William laughed, and replied coolly,

“I think the Prince Regent was rather fond of illusions!”

“How ridiculous! Why not just get bamboo?” she asked, inspecting the oriental-inspired wallpaper – a dusky pink with blue patterns.

“That would not be an illusion.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she replied. They were led through to the dining room, and William’s breath was quite taken away by the chandelier, which was immense, glittering god-like, and twisted with gilded dragons. It was something taken from a storybook and placed in the room. He could see the fire in their bellies, and their ripping muscles as they entwined themselves around the crystals. He had a chandelier he was very fond of at Brocket, but it was nothing compared to this. He was told how the Prince Regent, in his time, was very fond of gold being used at dinner, so that the candles burnished on the metal, and the entire congregation was smothered in an opulent gleam. William could imagine a mass of sweating, golden faces, chortling over their many courses as the Prince Regent pawed over the ladies.

It both repulsed him, naturally, but also gave him an odd sense of comfort – for he was a product of that now bygone era. He was a child of the opulent gleam and the chortling faces, the port-drinkers, and the oriental dragons. He was glad it was gone, though. He could not say it was a civilised time.

Victoria could not find any comfort in this decadent wonderland. She smiled at the artwork politely, but found no warmth in it. She wondered whether she was being petulant, or ungrateful, or simply having a negative reaction to a new place, like an infection, and soon she would become immune. Perhaps she would even grow to like it. She pushed her inhibitions back to the base of her throat.

There was one room which Victoria found agreeable, and that was the room dedicated to the once Duke of York. An almost entirely yellow room, in the same oriental style, finely decorated with good, pretty furniture, and a keen eye for detail and style. The bright yellow made it unmistakably happy, and lighter than the other rooms. She was quite taken with it, and decided that it was the room her and her husband would stay in for the week. She was told it was not customary for the monarch to stay in a bedroom intended for a Duke, but she replied that her husband was a Duke, so it would be perfectly fine. William did not have a lot to say in the matter but he, too, was quite content with the little bright yellow room.

The royal couple, contented as far as the other was concerned, settled in to Brighton with little fuss or bother, and it was decided that they would dine together that evening, and so the meal was prepared, and was hot on the table for the guests soon enough when the dusk was beginning to settle.

Before dinner, however, the new portrait of the royal family was unveiled in the drawing room. They had decided to unveil it to a private, intimate audience, as they felt the importance of this portrait acutely. As the velvet curtain fell to reveal the artist’s work, there was a general intake of breath. Victoria, as youthful now it seemed as she was when she first ascended the throne, looking out with the strength of a Goddess, her hand draped across the air to her husband who, surrounded by his fat-faced and smiling children, held that hand, and looked to her with adoration. The artist had, with the smallest and most careful touch of the brush, spotted white paint into Lord Melbourne’s eyes, so that it seemed he was moved to tears by this sight, and that the light made stars them. It was a beautiful portrait that, upon viewing, made stars in both Victoria and William’s eyes.

Feeling warm and joyous, the congregation went to dinner.

Victoria, deciding to change into her yellow gown (inspired by the shade of her new room), was thought by her husband to look wonderfully elegant, and his heart leapt a little to look on her. Her hair she had styled differently. Perhaps this was the influence of Harriet, he thought, for he knew how interested she was in her fashions, or perhaps it was Victoria’s own choice to have her the front of her hair drawn to the back of her head, falling softly around her forehead and cheekbones, and the rest in gentle coils. Emma Portman would later recall how the Lord Melbourne could barely eat his dinner for fear of taking his eyes from his wife.

“How do you find Brighton, William?” Emma Portman asked, eventually, to remind the man of decorum. It was impolite for him to be so ravished.

“I am keen on Brighton. The city air can be stifling. The countryside or the seaside puts me in a good humour. Everything is clearer, cleaner.”

“And how is Victoria finding it?”

“I do not know if she is keen.”

“She may learn to love it.”

“How do you find Brighton, Emma?” William asked, glancing to his friend, inquiringly. Emma laughed inwardly.

“I am not fond of Brighton, either, I must confess. I like London too much, William. If I leave London, I would sooner go to Bath.”

“I cannot stomach Bath.”

Lady Emma laughed. He was full of trivialities like that. Little things that seemed so silly, but that he was fixated on. William’s gaze turned half-teasing, stifling a laugh at Emma’s humour. He, too, knew how silly he must sound.

The Queen left dinner unusually early that evening, complaining of fatigue, and William – concerned – told her to go promptly to bed. He said he would entertain the guests for a little longer before joining her in bed. She did as she was told, trotting off to the yellow room. The yellow room became a vault, tomb-like and still. The door she opened became a rock at the surface of a cave, which she prised from the entrance, and the room inside was filled with a cool air, like air that hasn’t been disturbed in centuries, cold and wet and untouched. Breezeless. She closed the door and it clicked, and then she released a deep, hot breath, clasping two shaking hands to her abdomen. She quickly led herself to the bed and sat. The child was troublesome tonight. The child wanted its father to know.

When William finally went to bed, Victoria was already asleep, in her nightgown, her breath breaking the silence with the smallest whistle. He stopped in the doorway for a moment, and smiled. Falling into a lethargy, William prepared for bed, and slept beside his wife, being lulled to sleep by her whistling.

The morning broke with the cries of gulls. For a couple whose morning chorus band was the subtle twittering of songbirds or maybe the dull coo of a pigeon, the unforgiving cracks of gull calls were disturbing, and awoke them both earlier than they would have liked. They lay there for a while, awakened almost immediately by the lemony room, and made happy by it. They held hands in this little bubble of theirs, and Victoria – feeling comfortable to talk openly of Brighton now that she had slept in it – said, eventually,

“There are no private beaches in Brighton.”

“Victoria?”

“Harriet told me. If we went to the beach there would be crowds of people blocking the sea and the sun!”

William could not hide his confusion at this anecdote, which seemed so randomly borne.

“That may be true.”

“I would very much like a private beach for you and I,” she said, romantically. Her voice was wistful when she was being romantic, lilting with the cadence of a harp, soft as the beating of angel wings.

“It is January, my love, you would do well to find sun!” he replied, laughing at her romanticism. “And a private beach in Brighton, Victoria? You would be lucky.”

“No! Not in Brighton! Somewhere far off. Somewhere secluded,” her arm wound around his and soon her cheek was crushed up against his shoulder, her entire face squished into him. He looked fondly down at her.

“I have heard the Isle of Wight can provide the most excellent private seascapes.”

“Is that true?”

“I have heard so.”

“Then we shall get ourselves a private home in the Isle of Wight!” she cried, leaping to her feet. William chuckled.

“Yes, yes, of course we will.”

“You doubt me.”

“Of course not!”

“You do not think I can get a house for us on the Isle of Wight.”

William did not utter a word.

“I am the Queen of England!”

“You keep reminding me.”

The blunt and plush force of a pillow crumpled on Lord Melbourne’s noise and, after the initial shock, William realised that his wife had thrown a pillow at his face. It smelled like lemons and William was unsure whether this was a fact, or whether he was imagining it, due to the colour. The smell was sherbet and it tickled the back of his mouth.

“It is revenge for when _you_ kept reminding _me! _” Victoria giggled as the pillow fell from his face and flopped into his lap. His hair had been scuffed by the impact. He looked quite comical.__

__Over breakfast, a manservant, a young pox-y boy of barely seventeen, approached William Lamb with a silver tray and spoke in a boy’s voice,_ _

__“Lord Melbourne, there is a letter for you.”_ _

__Taking the letter, hiding his surprise behind a cool manner, he glanced quickly at Victoria who, less disguised, looked curiously at her husband. Neither had expected a letter. He opened it briefly, and turned open the leaf of paper to reveal a handwriting he knew almost as clearly as his own hand. Victoria saw her husband’s face illuminate before, with a joy so warm, he replied with a slight chuckle,_ _

__“It is my sister.”_ _

__Victoria’s hands flew to her mouth with an exclamation of surprise and joy,_ _

__“Oh!” she cried._ _

__“Emily. Gosh, it’s been too long,” William muttered, looking over the letter._ _

__“What does she say?” Victoria asked impatiently, abandoning her tea quickly turning cold. William’s eyes flickered like candlelight over the paper, intense and fast, before he spoke his reply,_ _

__“She has heard we are in Brighton, and so is she.”_ _

__“Emily is dearer to you than anything, William! She must visit!” Victoria replied without hesitation. It was true that Emily was very dear to her husband’s heart. All the Lamb siblings were close, but Emily and William had a particular bond. “When can she visit? She must! I would love to see her!”_ _

__“She says she would be honoured if we would accept her tomorrow. She is leaving Brighton in only a few days.”_ _

__“Accept it! The pleasure is all ours!” she sang, taking a bite of toast._ _

__“She is _my_ sister, Victoria.”_ _

__“And what? You would turn her away?”_ _

__“Of course not, I-“_ _

__“Then reply promptly,” she said, smiling. “I am already excited.”_ _

__William did so, promptly as she had advised, and, keeping to her word, she arrived the following day._ _

__Eight years her brother’s junior, Emily had a little more of her youth in her, but had the same mature handsomeness that made her brother so attractive. Very dark-haired, she was a strikingly handsome figure of a woman, broad in the hip and the shoulder, with regular features and the prettiest lips Victoria could imagine on a woman – dark and pink, rounded like the petals of a flower, and fixed in quiet serenity, changing like the light on a forest floor, at once both smiling and frowning, feeling and thinking. Her eyes were William’s eyes – the colour of afternoon sunlight passing through whiskey. Golden and green. She was dressed in white muslin and around her shoulders she held a shawl that was threaded with what looked like spun starlight. Despite her beauty though, she had a ferocity to her. A wit that came with her years, and showed in the creases of her face, only making her all the more beautiful._ _

__She threw herself into her brother’s arms upon arrival._ _

__“Oh, William!” she cried, her cheeks reddened. William whisked her up into the air._ _

__“Emily, my dear!”_ _

__Emily glanced over her brother’s shoulder to see the Queen and, promptly remembering herself, she released her brother and curtsied to the monarch._ _

__“Your Majesty.”_ _

__“Emily, sister,” Victoria smiled, taking both of Emily’s hand and lifting her from her curtsy, “How lovely it is to have you here!”_ _

__Emily was shown around the Pavilion, switching between a warm conversation with her sister-in-law and a humorous conversation with her brother, and was delighted particularly with the new portrait of the family. She gazed at it for a good minute or two, humming occasionally, tilting her head to the side, clasping her hands together. It seemed she beloved the figures painted by hand, unbreathing yet so alive they seemed to have heartbeats within the canvas. Then, quite casually, she remarked,_ _

__“Strange that you had the portrait done now, when it will so soon become obsolete.”_ _

__Victoria’s stomach sank into the womb in which lay the object that Emily referred to. How did she know? How could Emily have noticed so quickly, when William seemed utterly oblivious all this time? Was she swelling so noticeably? Victoria herself was hardly conscious of it. Perhaps it was a woman’s intuition, Victoria thought._ _

__William brushed the comment aside. That was, until she began on the same subject again, twenty minutes later, over a cup of tea._ _

__“When did you receive the joyous news, William, dearest?”_ _

__There was a rift. Like a stop in time. The fabric tearing. Victoria’s heart leapt._ _

__“Pardon?”_ _

__“The news!” Emily cried, shrugging her shoulders, and shaking her head. “William, don’t be silly!”_ _

__“I have no idea what you are referring to, you little devil.”_ _

__He used that nickname for Emily often. It made her laugh. It made Victoria laugh, but not right now._ _

__“Your Majesty?” Emily asked, turning to the Queen. Victoria saw Emily’s gaze flick between her eyes and her stomach. Emily turned back to William and, again, saw a blank expression. Then, she realised. William actually hadn’t the faintest idea what she was referring to._ _

__“Oh! Oh, goodness, I am very sorry. I am very sorry, your Majesty. I had assumed he had known.”_ _

__“No, no, Emily. Do not worry yourself. You weren’t to know.”_ _

__“Know about what?” William cried. Victoria’s lips pursed. Emily turned from sister to brother before, finally, half-whispering to her struck-dumb brother, she said,_ _

__“William. Your wife is with child.”_ _

__William gave such a lurch of surprise that he almost spilt his tea on his trouser leg. His eyes scoured Victoria, excitedly, innocently._ _

__“Is this true, Victoria?”_ _

__She nodded. William began to laugh, tears in the corners of his eyes._ _

__“How long have you known?”_ _

__“A couple of weeks.”_ _

__“Oh, Victoria!” he cried, rising to his feet and drawing her into his arms, clasping her in a warm embrace, laughing himself silly, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”_ _

__“I was unsure for a little while, and we have been so busy.”_ _

__“Never mind that, never mind that!” he wept, taking her face in his hands, using his thumbs to whisk away the tears that were beginning to fall over the apples of her cheeks. Her smile was white and broad and beautiful. “Oh, my love.” He kissed the closed eyelids that blinked the tears to her face, and combed her hair from her features with his fingers, all the time exclaiming his love or his excitement or his joy._ _

__And Emily watched, a little taken aback by these displays of affection, but quite moved by the happiness of his brother, and the joy of this marriage. Emily herself had sought happiness in marriage for many years before finding the love that one seeks in storybooks. And William, too, had finally found it. From their very earliest years, Emily had thought how William would make a wonderful father, and that he should have many, many children of his own._ _

__Emily took a handkerchief from her gown, quietly, and dabbed away her own tears._ _

__Soon, it was known around the circles close to the family that the Queen was expecting another child, and there was a great deal of excitement drumming around the prospect. Victoria and William, biding their time at Brighton Pavilion, wanted nothing more than to go back to Buckingham, and enjoy Victoria’s pregnancy, as they had done before. It would be so calm! It would be so serene! They would take carriage rides around London, gently cantering over the grass through gaps in the trees, hearing the cries of their subjects! They would listen for kicks and feel for movement, and yelp when they were heard or felt! They would read to each other until midnight, or walk through the Buckingham gardens until their legs gave way! They could return to Brocket, and sleep for hours, only to wake drowsily and kiss!_ _

__Victoria dreamt of Buckingham, and a peaceful pregnancy, and the birth of their child. And that dream, so sweetly dreamt, seemed almost a reality. But, as all dreams are, it was interrupted by a noise, a knocking, hollow and loud, before a letter entered. Emma and Harriet did not look up from their sewing, as this was surely an ordinary letter. William and Emily did not halt their conversation, as this was surely an ordinary letter. Victoria, being passed the letter, hardly thought to leave the room to read, for this was surely an ordinary letter._ _

__It was only when Victoria stood up, suddenly, and fled the room, that the conversations and the sewing were halted, and her husband pursued her._ _

__She was stood outside the door, holding the letter between white fingers. More like a skeleton’s than a woman’s. The paper trembled in her grip, and she gasped,_ _

__“A letter from Buckingham. It’s Mama.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos - it makes it all worth it!


	6. Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Duchess of Kent falls suddenly and gravely ill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter: major character death, and some sadness. But don't worry! It is short-lived! We will be back to happy Vicbourne soon. Your feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> Also, don't forget to check out the prompt meme:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Victoria_prompt_meme

Hollow – like a shell where a thing once dwelt now long, long dead – Buckingham Palace sat desolate at the edge of the landscape, at the end of the Mall, where their carriage trundled towards. Like a boat on an ocean indefinitely deep, it was solid, definite, against a ravine of purple, moon-trimmed clouds and shrouds of stars. Lit up from the inside, like a match burning within gauze, it beckoned. The hour was late, but Queen Victoria and her husband were not tired. It air was dark, and the coachman strained to see, but the Queen had insisted they lose not a single minute in returning to Buckingham – for the Duchess of Kent had taken very suddenly to bed, and hope had faded like the daylight.

William followed as the Queen rushed through the halls and corridors, once with order now winding. He had the strangest sense that the halls were not straight, but slanted, and that he was being pushed against the left wall. The floor was unsteady, heading upwards and then downwards and he could hardly catch his footing. The windows gave way to a blinding light and the silence was deafening. Blood rippling in his ears and a numbness at the tips of his fingers, he followed. A lump of lead at the base of his spine, praying that the end was not nigh. And his Queen, his wife, lacked all the physical symptoms her husband possessed and, in replacement, held an emptiness that tugged at her to be filled. No air in her throat or stomach in her body.

They were shown to the room, the same room where Lady Flora had croaked her final prayers, the room where poor Albert had breathed his last, and now the room where her mother, pale and peaceful, rested. She looked quite changed – her lemony-grey hair no longer ringleted, her cheeks sallow, bereft of their German plumpness. No red coloured them now. Her hands, resting on the bedsheets, did not belong to a living woman. Nor were they the hands that held Victoria when she was only a baby, stroking her halo of a face, the bowl of her cheeks and the blonde curls that wafted at her forehead. Nor were they the hands that had held her shoulders when she stood, only a young girl, in a room of large men, all unfriendly with gaping eyelids, bloodshot veins throbbing and nostrils flaring like angry bulls. Nor were they the hands that touched Sir John’s arm when they stood before her, that had tied the curling rags into her hair, or held her hand. The hands had no movement left in them now. But her eyes still had fire enough to turn to her.

“Drina.” Her voice was hardly her own but, returning home, Victoria responded without another thought, falling to her mother’s bedside, and bundling those lifeless hands within her own.

“Mama!” Victoria sobbed, her resolve failing her almost immediately as she saw her own blood reduced to this. A vessel that could have contained so much life, but it was ebbing away, like one wipes ink where it is no longer welcome, only smudges remain. Traces. William stood in the doorway. He had seen this before – Caro had looked not so different.

“Lord Melbourne,” the doctor said, approaching him sombrely, hushed, “I am afraid the Duchess hasn’t long left.”

“What are you saying?” Victoria asked, turning from her mother. Her eyes, wide, moved panicked between her husband and the doctor. How dare they talk without her? Now? Whilst her Mama lay there, so weak the wind could tear her in two. Lord Melbourne crouched next to his wife, at his mother-in-law’s bedside, and said, softly,

“Your mother is very ill, Victoria.”

“Will she die?” Victoria cried, tightening her grip on those hands that would not warm up. They felt waxy and cold. William’s lips pursed and when Victoria looked to the doctor she saw that he looked at the ground – that was answer enough. “Oh, Mama.”

“You must not be afraid, mein Liebling,” her mother said, shaking her head weakly, “I am happy. I am happy.”

“Mama! No!”

“Lord Melbourne?” the Duchess asked, her eyes passing to the gentleman. William had not expected to be called upon, and his lip trembled as he whispered,

“Ma’am?”

A laboured breath whistled through the cracks in her lips and as her ribcage collapsed again, she sighed,

“You must keep her safe.”

William nodded, breathing the word ‘yes’. A sharp intake of air gave fuel to an answer, which clogged his throat,

“Of course. I promise.”

“Mama… no…”

Her hands finally moved, brush-light, passing over the top of her daughter’s, which were trembling and white. And the hand settled over the back of the hand. A smile settled on her lips, and her eyes passed over the room. She seemed to be void of all pain. She did not suffer – of that, both were sure.

“I am with child, Mama,” Victoria said, voice cracking. “I am having another child!” A smile, quick as a passing ray of sunlight over a cliff-face, burst through the tears. A laugh came with it, as did a tear.

“Oh, Victoria.” Victoria. She had never used that name before. She was Drina no more. “What will you call it?”

“Oh, I- I-“ she stumbled over her words and turned quickly to her husband.

“If he is a boy, I think we will call him Frederick. If she is a girl…”

“Louise,” Victoria said, “Yes, Louise.” William smiled at the name.

“That is a very good name. A very good name,” her Mama said, coughing her words, her hands becoming limp. “What a beautiful child it will be.”

“Yes. It will be very strong, and good and kind, and just like its father,” Victoria sobbed.

“It will be just like its mother,” William said.

The smile on the Duchess of Kent’s lips stretched, and her eyes fluttered shut, like a book left unaided, and the life finally dwindled in her. She looked utterly serene, and quite beautiful. As striking now as she always had been. It took Victoria a moment to realise, and she shook her hands, saying her name, before falling to the bed, and crying into the stretched white bedsheets. William held her arm. She could smell her mother’s perfume – as familiar to her as milk is to a suckling child – the smell of a rosebush after the rain. And the rain returned.

The funeral was held soon after, and the crowds watched in silence as Queen Victoria, cloaked in black yet again, approached her mother’s casket, and placed a white rose atop it. They saw how the petals, papery, trembled in a draft. They saw how her mask did not waver for a single second but how, stone-like, she was strong. They saw how she returned to her husband and they saw how she looked at him. She looked at him as if he were the only thing left in the world. There was nothing purer. He stood with their children, bravely. And, stoical, they stood together – as husband and wife.

Victoria was never kind to her mother in life – and that made this all the more bitter. She felt she had wronged her. Her Mama had shown her such gentleness in those final moments, and what had she done to deserve it? She had scorned her, and been cruel, and harsh, and – just as she had done with Albert – she had only realised her goodness when it was too late. She only then remembered the moments when she was terrified and her mother would smile at her. She only then remembered the warm words she had said to her quietly. She only then remembered her mother, rather than the enemy. Just as she only remembered the friend when Albert left, rather than the husband.

William’s hand tight around hers softened her. The cracks in her heart were painted over. Strength.

The funeral procession passed to the Palace and, though tired and heartbroken, Victoria insisted that she address her ministers.

“Victoria, you are tired. No one would condemn you for going to rest. I shall greet our guests,” her husband replied, tucking a strand of hair that had come loose from her braids behind her head, gazing at her with a look so gentle and fond that Victoria was almost convinced. But, steeling herself, Victoria shook her head and gave her answer in a clear voice, regal and powerful,

“No. I must show them that I shall not run away.”

He allowed her to address the room. He did not stand beside her, but took his place among the crowd as he used to. He was there to nod and smile if she needed it, which he trusted she would not, but he did not wish to impose himself upon his monarch. His Queen. His conqueror. Empress and all. She stood before them, dressed in her black mourning dress, her eyes hollow in her skull, shot with blood that served as a reminder of her raw humanity, unreserved. And she did not falter, or even allow herself the slightest moment of doubt, before she began to talk,

“I have chosen to speak to you – my dearest ministers and friends – to ensure you that, though times are hard and dark, I will never neglect the responsibility I have for this country. Though I am grieving, I have grieved before. My family connections are scarce – I have lost both a father and a mother, and I have never known siblings. Just as my father has done for all my life, my mother will now hold a place of her own in my bosom and my memory, and with strength I shall hold her there. Though my heart hurts for her, my heart has hurt before. And I know that through heartache, there is a great deal of joy. I am surrounded by the love and affection of my people, and their gratitude warms my heart every day. And I am in the bosom of the dearest family one could hope for: one that I am endlessly thankful for. And a husband who is dearer to me than my own life.”

At this, Lord Melbourne stifled a sob with a cough. It was unlike him – to show such public emotion, but he was unable to control it. His cough was not convincing enough for the crowd, who turned to him, and saw that his eyes were filled with tears. The Queen showed no such weakness.

“I am not mad. I am not incapable. I am not hysterical. Yet I do mourn, as I am bound to do, as a daughter and a woman. And I shall endure, as the crown is bound to do. For the blood in me is royal, and strong. Though I may seem weak, I am not so afflicted. I trust, my friends and ministers, that this is understood. I have known great happiness where I thought none would exist again.”

She looked to William Lamb, and he remembered how sick she had been with grief after Albert’s death, and then he remembered how he had glowed – like a angel – in her wedding dress. His heart was full.

“And I shall once more.”

There was a silence that seemed impenetrable. And that silence, though disturbed by talk later, persisted in the minds and hearts of those who heard the Queen speak that day – so ever when their wives talked to them that evening, they were filled with a silence that caused their chests to ache.

And William Lamb, a husband in the bedchamber with his wife, kissed her forehead, and said,

“You were magnificent today, my darling.” But Victoria shook her head as her husband cupped her face.

“I felt so small. I know I would not have been able to utter a word had you not been there with me.”

“No, no, Victoria,” he said, firmly, stroking the apples of her cheeks with thumbs that felt rough next to her peachiness. “That was your power, my love, not mine.” Her eyes closed, and her mother was in her mind’s eye, and she could smell the roses again and feel the rain, light and cold, on her forehead and her lips, the back of her neck. The forehead, cold from the rain, met with his and was warmed. His breath mingled with hers and the roses became the distant scent of tobacco, aniseed, the smell of the hearth. He had never smelled like a gentleman – Victoria had always thought that, from the moment they first met. Gentlemen smell like perfumes and alcohol, but William smelled like home.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

Her skin pricked and the nightdress she wore felt like the skin that peeled from her lips. William did not blow out the candle yet. He knew that Victoria would need the light. The flame, shapelessly winding into the air whilst breathing out a line of smoke, made golden what would otherwise be grey. And Victoria sat up in bed whilst her husband lay, eventually drawing herself from the covers, wrapping herself in a shawl, and sitting on the armchair beside the window and, drawing a gap in the curtain, she looked at the night. William, though still, was not asleep and, after ten minutes, he sat up,

“I do not think it is right for you to stay at Buckingham for now.” His voice was hoarse in the late hour. The cracking of it soothed her. The shadows of bare twigs trembling in the wind passed over her face. She turned to William, and made out his features in the lowlight. He was concerned, it riddled his face, creased his brows and aged him.

“I do not want to go back to Brighton.”

“We have a house in the Isle of Wight,” he replied.

“What?” she asked feebly.

“You said you wished to bathe privately, where there were no crowds. There is a house – Osborne – on the Isle of Wight. It is ours,” he said. There was no vanity in what he spoke, no self-gratification, but – as always – he did all for the benefit of her. His lifeblood. The woman who allowed him to love.

“Why would you-?”

“Because you deserve a rest. And you won’t rest here.”

Victoria sighed, her sigh half a sob, half a song, and the shawl around her shoulders fell on to the chair.

“We will go together?”

He laughed,

“Of course, we will go together.”

Victoria stood up and walked like a ghost to him, knelt beside his bedside, and kissed his cheekbone which caught the weakening candlelight. The press of her lips against his skin made him smile, despite the heaviness of his heart.

“I would like that very much, William.”

They would be alone. Far away from what hurt her. A wild sea to separate them. Two people. Ordinary people. Husband and wife.

William could see Victoria smile in the darkness.


	7. Osborne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Osborne House, the royal couple go.

“Stop here,” William ordered, making two sharp raps on the roof of the carriage with a cane, and soon after it ground to a halt, and finally the morning chorus could be heard now that the wheels had ceased grinding and squealing. Victoria, nestled amongst her children, looked puzzled at her husband, as did the children to their father, and the sight of a communal crease of brows made William chuckle. “We will walk from here. The children shall carry on to the house.”

“Walk?”

“Yes,” he replied, simply, “There is a straight road to follow from here.” He was already beginning to open the latch on the door when his wife protested yet again.

“How far?”

“One… maybe two miles.” His voice was clear and sounded like a song, chirping against what the birds could rival. His eyes bright, half his face bleached in the morning sun. Victoria could remember being shown a quartz – how old must she have been? Fourteen? Fifteen? – that was green-gold in colour, darker where the quartz was thickest, but extraordinarily bright where the light could permeate its sharp facets. It had left her quite spellbound – and she remembered very clearly, later that day, studying her stormy blue eyes in the mirror in her bedchamber before her mother came up, and wishing, wishing that her eyes could gleam like that quartz. Like sun through a leaf or the shallow ponds where tadpoles grow. Her own eyes – condemned to their blueness – would never shine so, but her husband’s did. Very much so.

She could have grown quite distracted in those eyes, but, as he began to step out of the carriage, she remembered herself, and cried,

“I am not wearing shoes for walking!”

“You are wearing shoes. That is enough. We will not see the grounds shut up in the carriage like this. And the morning is so pleasant. Come, I insist.”

Lord Melbourne did not lie in the slightest when he said that the morning was pleasant. Pleasant and more so, even though the month was February and the expectation was bitter. The air was fairly still, what little wind was only bracing, and the light was crisp and clear, the clouds few and scarce and the sky a pale, icy blue. Stepping out into nature was like delving one’s body into ice water, initially a shock, since the carriage was clammy and hot from the bodies of the family all sighing and wriggling, but soon oddly liberating. It felt healthy, to breathe in air that made your lungs shiver, to feel the moisture as your breath condenses around your lips. And the squint against the winter sun was a joy – a reminder of what it was to be alive and feeling. Victoria remained for a begrudging second, and then she clambered out in pursuit of her husband. She told their children they would not be long. Vicky was in charge – much to Edward’s horror. Alice was in the care of a nursemaid in another carriage. Stepping out into the air, delving into the ice-water, the carriage trundled off down the path and, as Victoria looked down it, she realised they could not even see a house from where they stood, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Wriggling her toes in her ineffectual shoes (not good for walking at all) she stared at William, who had turned his face up to the sun and was breathing in the air as if it were an opiate. There was a taste of salt in the air.

“There is not so much air in London,” William remarked. Victoria remained silent. He turned, saw her with her arms folded, and, smiling, said, “I hope you are not too cold.”

“It is not the brisk morning that troubles me, William. But I am sure to wear my feet down to stubs! These shoes are silk!” she objected, not moving a single muscle as William began to make his way down the path, following the carriage which by now was out of sight. He laughed as he replied,

“Then I shall have to carry you.” His tone was flirtatious, and Victoria mocked a gasp, chuckling through it, a blush forming on her cheeks.

“That would make you a frightful Willoughby! I shall have nothing to do with a cad like him!” she jeered, skipping to him, and walking alongside him. Her blush was strong enough for her husband to see it. The icy air was beginning to refresh Victoria, and the smell of grass, the birdsong, brought a lightness to a heart that had become dull and heavy as lead. William frowned as he remarked,

“I’ve always seen myself as more of a Colonel Brandon.”

Victoria’s heart swelled, and a vague smile brushed over her parted lips, as she turned towards the light through which her husband walked, and stated,

“You read Austen.” Her dreamy tone was a delight to William.

“I have done, yes.” He slowed to a saunter. “Your surprise offends me!” Her blush returned.

“What do you think of her?” Victoria asked with genuine intrigue, cocking her head, listening to the crunch of the road beneath their feet. It was a real sound: earthy, and messy.

“I have heard she was a very spirited woman – and I think it reflects well on her prose,” he said plainly, “However, I find Miss Austen’s works tiresome.”

“Tiresome? How so?”

“Trifling, perhaps,” he replied. There was a stream passing along beside them, ever so slight and hardly noticeable were it not for the trickling of it.

“Trifling! Oh, you sound like a boring old cynic! I find them quite romantic!”

“They’re certainly romantic, but I’ve always found they are little else,” he replied, shrugging. Victoria sighed,

“They are very much more!” She could recall a million different emotions, the heat of a ballroom, the smell of a hilltop in the rain, a delusion and a sisterhood, all touched upon in a million different lights, and now all ignored by her husband in favour of ‘romantic’ – used as an insult. Austen had caught her imagination long ago.

“I must admit I did get on quite well with _Emma_ ,” William replied, appeasing Victoria, but remembering how fond he was of the sparky heroine. She reminded him quite viscerally of the women who had painted his own life – and inspired quite passionate loves in him.

“Oh, I could never warm to _Emma_. I find her quite vexing!” Victoria replied, shaking her head. She had hoped he would favour Pride and Prejudice – or Northanger Abbey, which she always found so terribly funny!

“I believe it is Austen’s finest.” He was quite serious.

“Not at all. I cannot agree.” Obstinate in all things: that was the Victoria that William had fallen in love with. He felt bold in this conversation – this debate in which they were indulged – and he said, quite softly,

“Perhaps the heroine is too similar to yourself, my love.”

“Emma Woodhouse? Oh, don’t say so, William! I could not bear to be thought of as so stubborn and vain!” Victoria cried, her pace picking up to a trod, which thundered the road, and make William laugh.

“Emma Woodhouse had a very good heart, and she was certainly clever. And I remember finding myself quite jealous of Mr Knightley.” He caught up with her. Victoria slowed. A smile creeping into the corner of her mouth gave her away.

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” Victoria said, begrudgingly, “Though I would rather you had likened me to a more refined spirit: Jane Bennet, perhaps.”

“I would never have fallen in love with a Jane Bennet. She was far too dull for me. I would grow quite tired of someone so amiable, lacking in any gumption to challenge me!” Victoria laughed, as clearly and tunefully as the stream which was beginning to dwindle to a soft drip tossing over smoothed pebbles. William saw a flash of her straight teeth, a crease in her eyes, and a dimple in her cheek, and it warmed him to the very tips of his fingers.

“You, of course, like your women disastrous!”

“I like my women strong-willed,” he corrected. She pranced for a moment, joyous.

“We so rarely have the time to talk as we used to. I remember when we would spend hours and hours debating our favourite month of the year, or agonising over Hamlet’s plight!” She giggled fondly, and then it faded and she said, in earnest, “I do miss it.”

“That is why we are here. To talk, and live as ordinary people,” William replied, “We will talk until the early hours of the morning, if you desire it.”

“I do.”

“Then I will be your humble servant,” he said, with a great passion in his words that wiped the grin clean from Victoria’s face, and a sigh replaced it, trembling on open lips. He saw her eyes grow dark, and he felt his own chest flutter. With a lighter tone, he added, “to argue with ‘til Michaelmas!”

The walk proceeded and, both having grown dreamy, they only talked a little until they reached Osborne. Large, orange-tinted and made brighter still by the tail-end of the sunrise, it had something of the Mediterranean about it; the saccharine scent of Italian peaches ghosted into Victoria’s nose, though there were no peaches growing, and she felt she could hear the hum of the Adriatic. The sea salt on her lips could have been whipped from the Gulf of Venice. There were three great dark arches between the double staircase in the gardens that reminded Victoria of a hermitage in an epic Gothic Romance, where lovers would exchange vows and kisses. And the statues of nude women, coy and virginal, surrounded by the pooling fountain waters, inspired intrigue in Victoria. She wanted to view their sculpted features, to see the expression they held for eternity; whether they were afraid or noble, noble-faced women with strong, supple bodies and hard lines for mouths, softened by budding lips. It seemed entirely empty, with only the choir of birds to make noise, and the soft tread of servants beginning to make themselves acquainted with their domain.

“It is beautiful, William,” she gasped, flying to the fountain where she leant down to view the face of the lady stood still in the centre of it. She stood with her hands wound behind her back, a chain falling around her thigh, looking down one shoulder to the curve of her hip and to the waters below her, as if wary they would get too deep. Her face was noble indeed, but sad. She had a sad face, as if hiding her face from the sun she was so in love with but could never kiss. She had loved the sun very much, this woman in the fountain, and looked at its glare in the water and the sparking droplets. “It is so beautiful.”

“Let me show you inside.”

He did, of course, happily, knowing his way around through rehearsal and research, and Victoria found the interior so excessively pleasing. It was not so crystal as Buckingham Palace – perfectly sublime as it was – but far more like a home. Still grand, of course, it felt rougher. There were a few more imperfections – each one perfect in its own way – a sun-faded curtain, a mismatched pair of vases, a bookcase with one book stacked horizontally upon the others, a stray cobweb which she knew would not be there this time tomorrow.

“It is so quiet, and peaceful,” Victoria said, stopping at a window on the second floor, where she could see the grounds right across to where they met the sea – where green met grey, with white streaking the grey as the waves crested and tumbled. She was sure those waves were bitterly cold, but she would walk to meet them in an instant.

“We will have some music in the evenings, of course,” he replied, as if the peace needed to be filled for her to be content. She did not mind – she liked music very much.

“And in the daytime, we will be beside the sea?” she asked, noticing the reflection of him, behind her, in the window. She glanced up at it for only a moment, catching that eye, and bashfully looking down again at the lawns. She remembered how she would run through the grounds of Brocket in just her nightgown. She could do that here.

“With the children, yes,” he smiled, catching her eye in the reflection. Her eye lay above the sea, and the colour of her iris was precisely the same hue as the raging tide, just as real, just as fierce. “And you will rest, and you will laugh, and you will be loved, exceptionally.”

“Am I not always loved exceptionally?” she challenged, turning her back to the window, propping her hands on the windowsill, her eyes like a lance – provoking – and a sly grin plastered to her face. He placed his hands either side of her, atop hers on the windowsill, and moved so close to her that his breath clouded the windowpane behind her shoulder.

“Of course, you are,” he breathed, tracing a line of kisses along her jawline, like following a path on a map, and the path led to her neck, where he indulged himself in a deeper kiss that made Victoria inhale sharply. The hand on hers traced up her arm with a touch as slight as a raindrop rolling on a petal, and as fleeting, as soon the palm was on her chest, the fingers playing the piano on her shoulder. And the tune she made was all sighs and gasps, and orchestrated by him, him entirely, eternally. He could feel her womb, growing large, pushing against him as he kissed. The most tender miracle imaginable: a blessing.

Taking his lips from her neck, breathless, he knelt to her womb, and kissed the bump that had developed there. A tear and a breath of a laugh left Victoria, as she ran her hands through his curls, and he kissed her yet again. Victoria could hear him muttering words of love and adoration – as if he was worshipping her – but she could not make out what he said, for the blood was rushing in her ears. She could feel his kisses making flowers bloom across her abdomen, and she could feel the child turning, responding to its father. He could feel it too. So small and fragile, still being nurtured.

He stood once more, and kissed her lips this time. It was passionate, and she backed into the window, the force of her body disturbing the condensation and making teardrops. He moaned a little into the kiss, and then a hand, feverishly, gathering her skirts, lifting them.

“William!” she cried, drawing him off her, “You are too bold. It is barely midday!”

He drew back, chuckling at himself,

“Sorry. Sorry.”

“You are incorrigible,” she teased, placing an affectionate hand on his lapel, and finding the shade of red his face had turned quite humorous. He was always so composed, controlled, and to see his feathers ruffled was always a delight to her. “Come, I believe there is more of the house for you to tour me around.” And, with that, she walked, and he took a moment to collect himself, a couple of heavy breaths, and a wipe of his mouth, and he followed her.

The daylight, being February, soon retreated guiltily on the shelf of the sea, creating a second sun on the waves, stretching far towards the shore, like an orange pathway of light that seemed so real you could follow it to someone far off and obscure, but filled with light. Where the sun beloved of the woman in the fountain once boasted, now the moon, like a skulking goddess, stretched her arms to her very fingertips, and there was music playing where Victoria, William, and their children sat. The musicians pumped out the beginning of the third adagio of Mozart’s Serenade No. 10, and Victoria’s eyes grew cloudy, and her gaze lingered on the base of the music stand before the oboe player, who began to play one definitive note, mingled perfectly with the other wind instruments, despite the note being higher, clearer, and almost ecclesiastical in its wailing. William saw her gaze, and as the oboe lowered into its crooning pitches, he placed a hand on hers, and she responded with a sad voice,

“Mama loved this melody.”

William’s heart tinged. Victoria seemed to be blackened by coal, only around the edges, so lightly he could rub it off, but she may be scorched again very soon, so he would have to rid her of the coals. He took the hand and kissed her knuckles. She smiled, hey eyes still downcast, but warmed by his affection – for she did love him, exceptionally.

“I have a surprise for you, Victoria,” he said. He wasn’t going to make a song and dance of it – for it was as much his gift as it would be hers – but he thought it might make her smile. She creased her eyebrows,

“A surprise?”

He stood up, and went to the adjacent room. He was gone for a few moments, and Victoria sat awaiting him, nervously. After those few moments – which dragged their heels – a tapping of toes entered the room. Too light to be William’s, and too often, but there was not human entering the room. The tapping of toes became louder, and Victoria looked down to see a bundle of fur trundling towards her. A little puppy. All perky steps and clumsy paws, it thundered across the carpet towards her. Vicky and Edward were thrilled, throwing themselves to the floor to see the puppy, but Victoria was speechless, until William entered the room again, a wide smile lighting up his face. A black, white and ginger little creature, and fluffy as anything.

“A dog?” Victoria asked, dumbfounded. William nodded, finding her shock quite endearing. Victoria sunk to the floor beside her children and bundled the excitable little thing into her arms. With a tongue long and pink, the little puppy made a warpath for Victoria’s chin, and licked until she was slobbery. It had a slightly wiry coat, but soft legs and a soft beard around its mouth. “Oh!” The little thing was a joy! Victoria was endlessly happy! “Now you are spoiling me, William!” she wept, admiring the tiny paws which pressed at her.

“I hope I am not being too presumptuous.”

“No! No, not at all. Is it a boy or a girl?” she cried, barely able to tear her gaze from the dog.

“A boy.”

“What breed?”

“A wire fox terrier.”

“Oh, what a darling!”

The little fox terrier made yelping noises with excitement – they were a lively breed, but ferociously loyal, and very good with children. Already the little thing was playful, and wriggled in Victoria’s clasp to play with her son and daughter. And, once she let him go, he was bouncing and running on the carpet. Victoria threw herself into William’s arms.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you! I love him already!”

The fox terrier was named Chester. And Victoria stayed close beside him for the rest of the evening, until the pup wore himself out and he fell asleep, tucked close beside her, warm and cuddly. Victoria herself was sleepy, but quite happy as she walked with William to their bedchamber, on the second floor, where everything was most quiet and most dark. They lit candles, and drew the curtains, and they listened for the whisper of the sea, and made their own whispers. They conversed in whispers that night, as if the walls had ears and they were frightened of waking it. The house was dreaming. He unlaced her dress, savouring how the ribbon tightened around his fingers, before loosening and hissing as it was pulled from the holes in the fabric. The dress dropped (how his heart still skipped when it did!) and she shivered in her nightdress. William could see her rounded tummy more clearly now. He marvelled at the female form, so strong. She let him take her hair down, and he placed it ever so gently on her shoulder, so it curved at the nape of her neck, brushing just slightly at her ear – just enough to tickle. And her eyes, looking down, waiting for him, finally fluttered – as a butterfly takes flight – and her eyes met with his, over her shoulder. Her lips parted, her breath coming fast, she leaned into his cheek and pressed a kiss there, then another on his cheekbone, then another at his lips.

A hand, feverishly, gathering her skirts, lifting them. She was home. She did not this time stop him. How could she? When his touch was so divine.

And, to bed, they went. Silently, as not to disturb the house which, that night, was to dream, when they would not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, not angsty for long... as always, you are all very kind, and your feedback is invaluable!


	8. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters exchanged and hearts remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out the Victoria prompt meme:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Victoria_prompt_meme

_My dearest Emily,_  
Her Majesty is recovering, I am happy to say. I fear her heart still aches, and I do see it, in her face, when she thinks I am otherwise engaged. But she will heal – she is stronger than she knows.  
As to my health, the sea air is healthy, and I feel myself restored by it. The city is so stifling and I have felt it badly, but I know Osborne is good for us both. And what a house it is! You would adore it, Emily. There is such a sunlight in the mornings – enough to make you weep. Everything is golden here, the water, the sky, the house itself is burnt orange. There are fountains that sometimes seem as if they are crying molten gold.  
I am reading Persuasion to the Queen – after a conversation we had about Miss Austen. She is enjoying it very much. I think you once said Persuasion to be your favourite – or was that Pride and Prejudice?  
We have a new addition to the family: the sweetest fox terrier named Chester. The Queen is in love – more so, I think, than she is with me. Chester is a playful little thing, and very attached to the children. On the subject of children, the pregnancy is smooth. Her Majesty doesn’t take well to pregnancy. She hates it. She barely takes a breath if not to give fuel to some complaint – but it does not bother me. I think she fears it, most of all. Charlotte’s ghost. Of course, she has nothing to fear – and I remind her of that – but she takes great pain in worry. But it is all smooth and as expected, and she grows by the day.  
I apologise for the quick removal from Brighton, but I am sure you understand.  
I hope London is agreeing with you, Emily. I am sure it is, you little devil. You will be the centre of attentions, even now. Send my love to Palmerston. God knows he needs it – poor thing. I hope politics is not draining him. I, frankly, am happy to have left it behind me. The Tories are a plague.  
Send my love to the children. And, of course, I send my heart to you, dear sister, and hope to hear from you quickly.  
Yours,  
 _William._

_Sweet Will,_  
You astound me. ‘The Tories are a plague’! If Sir Robert were to hear you, that would be enough to have you estranged from the Queen forever. What happened to impartiality? You will turn the Queen staunch Whig! You call me ‘little devil’, but I fear you, sir, are more devil than I am. Where would I learn it, if not from my elder brother?  
And my favourite Austen novel is Sense and Sensibility – I do not know where you got the idea that I liked Persuasion from!  
I am glad to hear, however, that you and the Queen are well. She is an excellent lady. I feared your health was declining in London – but I had hope the country would treat you well. And you are a most attentive husband! A fox terrier! What a little angel. I am sure I would love to meet him.  
Though I do not know the Queen as well as you do, William, I know – as you say – that she is stronger than she understands. You would never have married a lesser spirit. I hope very much that the pregnancy does not grieve her excessively. It will all be worth it, in the end, it always is. You are an excellent father.  
When you left me at Brighton, I was struck with the remembrance of our youth. I remembered how we had been great, great friends, you and I. I remembered how we confided in each other. I remember how, after Caro left you, you had come to me. I remember greeting a gentleman at the door, bringing him inside, sitting him down, and then I remember how you struggled for half-an-hour with your emotions. And then I remember how you cried.  
I had almost forgotten it. But I remember seeing you so upset, and I remember it breaking my heart in twain.  
After you became a widower, and after Augustus – I feel I do not need to remind you – my heart had not at all mended, and I thought you should never be happy again. My heart wept for you, brother, dearest.  
And, if you had told me then, or told me when you cried that afternoon, or told me when we were only children, that you would one day be husband to the Queen of England, I would not have believed a word of it.  
I cannot begin to explain to you how proud I am, and how glad that you have finally found contentment.  
The children and Henry will receive your love, and so do I, but I send twice as much love back to you. And pass all that love to the Queen. And pass it amongst your children. And then pocket it for yourself.  
Your loving sister,  
 _Emily._

_Uncle Leopold,_  
I sincerely wish you are well, and that your health and happiness is sound. It has been too long since I have seen you and Ernst, and I miss you both dearly, and would very much like to see you again – now more than ever. We must meet. We have so much to talk of.  
Recent events have been hard, and I know you must be grieving, and I hope you will not take my actions as negligent. I do not run to the Isle of Wight with my husband to holiday. I am learning to heal, and I hope most fervently that you are doing the same. When you find a heart dear to you that is so good and kind and unaffected, wanting only your happiness and peace of mind, it will give you happiness. You must find solace.  
I must tell you I am with child. It has been a few months. Be happy for me.  
Little Vicky and Edward are strong and lively – and they look more like dear Albert every day. We think of him often.  
Please write to me soon. I long to hear you are well, and I long to hear of Belgium and Ernst. Send him my love and thoughts, and my hopes of seeing him soon.  
Your devoted niece,  
 _Victoria._

Victoria set her pen down, and blew across the ink on the words. Like eyes passing from light to dusk, the shine faded from them, and they lay in lines on the paper like immovable objects. She was unhappy with what she had said. Of course. She knew she would be before she’d even taken ink to paper. She knew she would be unhappy before she’d even thought of what to put down. She was still unhappy as she folded the paper crisply – careful to be neat, to have the corners matching and the edges true. She almost thought to grasp the paper in her fist, scrunch it in a ball, and throw it across the room, as she poured a circle of red ink to the join. The spot she made was not as neat as she would have liked it to be. But she persisted, pressing the seal into the wax and drawing it away with a soft click of the hardened wax. She turned the paper over, and wrote on the top.

‘Leopold.’

Quite simply, very small, and then she passed it to a steward, who took it on a silver tray, and prepared it to be sent to her uncle.

For an hour or so afterwards, she sat at the desk, with her chin buried in a hand, and thought over what she had said, and questioned and adjusted and second-guessed and third-guessed, and she almost called the steward back so she could burn what she had written. She had written nothing of huge note – but she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. No – afraid was not the right word. She could not pin her feelings to the wall as one would a butterfly, to present and preserve her heart.

She felt that if she did not say the right words, she would lose everything.

It was just at that moment when William, unknowing of his wife’s distress, came into the room, in the process of telling her something, when he stopped, seeing her face buried in a hand, and seeing her eyebrows so creased he thought she should knot her face forever. Her face was turned down to the desk, and she reached out to the pen, before turning her face up and seeing her husband. She would not lose him, she reminded herself. She promised herself, she would not lose him.

“William.” Her voice was sweet, and light, but oddly empty. William didn’t reply but hastened to her side, knelt there, and stroked a hand across her back. “Where have you been?” she asked, ignoring her own distress. William was not going to ignore it, however.

“What troubles you, my dear?” he asked. Looking up at her, as he was then, made her heart feel full. That fullness spread to her arms, her face which glowed, her throat which leapt, the tears in her eyes, and down to her womb. The felt the child roll.

“I just send a letter to Uncle Leopold,” she said. Gently squeezing her shoulder, letting her know he was there, he replied,

“Yes?”

“I am afraid, William,” she sighed. William could see, when she turned her gaze towards the window, and her eyes caught the gold of the light, that they were filled with tears.

“Afraid? Victoria, my darling, what have you to be afraid of?” he crooned, running a thumb over her cheekbones as if wiping away tears that had not yet fallen. She was using all her strength to keep them dammed up.

“I am afraid I shall say the wrong thing, and upset him.”

“Why are you afraid of that? He is your uncle.”

“I have never had an easy relationship with my family, and I think he is all I have left!” she cried, shaking her head. She thought herself so silly, getting upset about something so trivial. She could feel her child kicking. “Oh, he is so restless, today! He won’t stop kicking!” she shrieked again, pushing her chair back and pulling herself away from her husband. She was growing agitated. It took William a second to realise she was talking of the child. He wanted to be able to touch her, and take all her pain and worry. He wanted to draw it up through him. He wanted to feel it for himself, so that she wouldn’t have to. Victoria heaved as she took in breath and huffed it out again, and a few moments later she talked again, calmer this time. “I do not want him to think I have abandoned Albert altogether.”

Hearing Albert’s name made William wince. He swallowed, and with it came his pride, and his human selfishness. But, after clearing that from his throat, the bitter taste remained, and he had no room to speak.

“I think he thinks it was easy for me to move on to another. And, though I never loved Albert, I swear it, not how I love you, I would hate to think he thinks badly of me for it. And, after how I treated Mama, how I was wicked to her every day until she died… I… I suppose he thinks me frightful. And Ernst too. For he was Albert’s brother, no less. And he must hate me… and I so badly want his good opinion… I could not bear to think he hates me. I have not seen him in so long I could not… I could not be sure what he thinks. Suppose he does hate me. Suppose they both do. I would have no family left in all the world.”

Victoria wept as she spoke, but would not turn to her husband. He remained kneeled, and watched. He watched as one watches figures in a dream, disassociated, knowing that they are not in control of what they see, and therefore can do nothing to change it.

“They do not. I assure you, Victoria. I challenge anyone to hate you, anyone at all! They could not do it!” he laughed. She laughed, half-choking through her tears. “Invite them, then you will see! We have been at Osborne for some time now, we must return to Buckingham soon. And if we have guests when we return, it might soften the blow.”

“I have.”

“You have?”

“Invited them. I have. But I do not think they will accept.”

“Nonsense! They are sure to.”

“I doubt I will even get a reply.”

“No, you will. And they will accept. And, I promise you, Victoria, they will come and it will be just like old times. When we listened to music, and drank and ate until the late hours, and they will be happier than anything to see you!”

“You seem so sure,” she mewled, finally turning to him. He smiled, reassuringly. It was a smile she had seen a million times before. She remembered seeing it first. When she had given her first address, dressed in black, afraid, and timid, he had given her that smile, and like a raven, collecting shiny things, she had held it with her. When he spoke, it was kind and gentle,

“Because I am.”

And when she returned the smile, it was kind and gentle. She nodded. And she believed him. Then, remembering himself, William said, excitedly,

“There are rooks, Victoria.”

His excitement made her laugh, again. He was like a child, discovering something. As he knelt, she reached a hand out and stroked it through his hair, and asked,

“Rooks?”

“Yes, in the grounds. I heard them. Clear as anything. And I have found where they live,” he smiled as he said it. She leaned down to him, and flashed a playful grin as she replied,

“Show me.”

They tumbled out of doors together, and through the grounds, dressed too thinly for the cold, but not caring.

She heard them, as he did, before she could see them. And the very sound of it – harsh cracks into the wind – kindled in her all the feelings that she thought long lost. She remembered it all, that autumn when she took her heart into her hands and had held it as it split down the centre. But she remembered how she had taken the two halves, still bleeding, and stuffed them back into her gown, to hide them. She remembered how her hands had been taken by him, and she turned to him now and saw those two hands again. She had taken them. They were hers. She took his hand as he led her to the tree that housed their cawing, and she thought it the most precious thing on earth.

They did not shine as gold does, nor did they sparkle as a diamond would, they had no monetary value nor great colour or beauty, but they were warm. They were warm and they moved in her hand, folding fingers around her palm, stroking the back of her hand with a rough thumb. They were warm and alive and kind. And, for that, they were more precious to her than her crown and all the country. She would give up the empire for the feeling of those hands.

And then she saw them, as he pointed up a tree, black birds, like shadows, so dark they were almost not there at all, and she noticed how they were off in pairs. Lovers. They preened each other with sharp beaks. Or they simply sat together, sleek feathers brushing up against each other. And she smiled as she watched them, lifting her hand to block out the sun to view them better. And when one swooped it made her laugh. And William watched them too, for a while. But the while passed, and he looked at her. She still watched the rooks, but he watched her, for the sight was a magnificent one. Her mouth slightly agape, her hand raised to her brow, her face full and glowing with her motherhood. The corner of his mouth turned, and he tightened his grip on her hand, turning back to the rooks.

He saw two, one grand, almost regal, and another, slightly scruffy, slightly grey, close beside. In a moment, he was taken aback by the sight of them. He saw himself and Victoria in these rooks. And it made him chuckle.

They walked back inside, talking happily.

The beach. The sun. The golden light. The statue in love with it. The fountain. The gardens. Flowers. Nature. The cawing. The calling. The birdsong. The piano: played by them both, in harmony, a duet. Perfectly pitched. The time. The hours. Chimed. The rolling and the kicking. The smiles. The children and the puppy. And the hours continued. And she smiled more often. And she cried almost as often. And each time he was there to take her hand and kiss it. And each time he was there to whisper in her ear. Each time she would smile again.

And then, after a wait that seemed too long, a letter arrived.

“From your Uncle, your Majesty.”

“Oh! Oh!” Victoria exclaimed, almost dropping her sewing, and seizing the letter. As soon as it was in her hand, however, it burned, and she wanted to drop it again. William looked to her. His heartbeat raced. “I did not think he would reply! Oh!”

“Will you read it alone?” William asked, crossing the fingers that were hidden behind his thigh.

“Yes… no… oh… no, I will read it here.” She sat awkwardly back down. And stared at the letter. And imagined opening it. And imagined the worst. And grew more anxious. And sat more awkwardly. And still did not move to open the letter.

“Victoria?”

“Yes! Sorry! I will read it.” Then, having been prompted, she tore open the seal far too quickly, and almost tore the page. She cried out, and then smoothed the page quickly, checking it had not been torn. It had not. She sighed. She turned her eye up to William. He was expectant. She turned back down, and finally read.

_Victoria,_  
It is wonderful to hear from you at this difficult time. I must say, I did not anticipate your writing to me, and I thank you for your thoughts. Your hand is stressed upon the page, I hope you are not ill. I, myself, am getting braver by the day.  
Ernst is very well. I told him you wrote, and he was very pleased.  
I will accept your invitation to come to Buckingham gladly. It would do me good to be surrounded by family. Ernst will come with me. He says he has missed you – but I think he also misses the English women.  
I am happy for you, Victoria. I am happier than I can say. I long to meet your child, and I am sure you are glowing. Like a flower. I am looking forward to seeing you again. You remind me so much of your mother.  
And I would very much like to see Vicky and Edward, and Alice too.  
I must not neglect your husband, Lord Melbourne. I hope he is well. I am glad he makes you so happy, and I thank him for it.  
I shall see you very soon. We will depart presently.  
Yours,  
 _Leopold._

“Well?” William asked, seeing how her eyes retraced the same line again and again at the bottom of the page. Victoria looked up, not smiling, not frowning: her expression was entirely open. She spoke brilliantly, calmly,

“We must go to Buckingham.”

Harriet Sutherland was told about the return of the Queen and the Duke of Hertfordshire, and she was told she would need to return to the palace. She was also told, by the messenger, that she would need to dress well. She always dressed well, so she needn’t worry, but the request struck her as strange. Straightening the skirts of her dress absent-mindedly, she asked,

“Why is that?”

“King Leopold and Prince Ernst are coming to visit, Duchess.”

Harriet turned red. Her knees weakened. And her heart fluttered, never to be pinned to a wall like a butterfly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter - more to come! Your kudos and comments are always read and loved!


	9. Cleopatra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antony and Cleopatra. Iseult and Robin Hood.

There were ten chimes of the bell; and this was the day that Leopold and Ernst were expected to arrive at Buckingham Palace; and Victoria sat beside the window, restless, anxiously peering down the path, expecting every time to see the carriage trundling down the driveway. Harriet Sutherland, more subtle in her glances through the glass, tensed at every noise, each tensing of her muscles making her heart ache ever stronger. Emma Portman – composed as ever – sat between the two ladies, sensing their agitation, and knowing full well why both of them flittered so. They were like leaves caught underfoot, trembling at each gust of wind, but unable to move from their seats.

Harriet Sutherland thought no one knew. Queen Victoria thought no one knew. Emma Portman did know.

“What is the time, Emma?” Victoria asked, barely a minute after the clock had struck. A laugh caught, stifled, at Emma’s lips before she replied, serenely,

“Just past ten o’clock, Ma’am.”

“Is it so late in the day?” she cried, exasperated. Harriet gave an almost inaudible sigh, as if reiterating what the Queen put so fervently.

“I’m afraid so, Ma’am. I am sure they will not be much longer,” Emma said, trying to ease the suffering of her companions. But all the medicine and kind words in the world would not balm the agony of frustrated love – whether familial or romantic. “How nice the weather is today.” Emma could have laughed at herself – talking of the weather to pass the time – how awfully English of her! She was sure William would have laughed, too, if he could hear her now. “Will you take a turn about the gardens later, Ma’am?”

Victoria was so distracted in her task of studying the palace gates that she did not hear Emma’s question. Lady Emma smiled to herself, and continued her task at sewing.

“Good morning!” And here he was! Emma gave William a look (a look very familiar to him, being old friends with Emma) as he entered the room, and William’s countenance lost its easy joyousness. “How is your sewing, Lady Emma?” he asked, trying not to dwell on Leopold of Ernst, who were clearly a delicate subject amongst the gathered ladies.

“It is coming along splendidly, thank you, William,” Emma replied, enjoying the first easy conversation of the day, since the Queen and Harriet were so fraught that their conversation had been limited to agitated quips and sighs. “I have stitched gardenias… see? There. I know how you favour the flower.” To this, William gave a smile as soft as those white petals that were brought to his mind’s eye, and replied,

“Indeed. They were the first flower I bestowed upon my wife, weren’t they, Victoria?”

Victoria gave a hum in response, gaze scouring the landscape for sight of a carriage. William stifled a laugh and shared a knowing look with Emma, patient and unoffended at her distraction. Then, only a second after William had turned to walk further about the room, the frustrated cry of his wife stopped him,

“Oh! What could possibly be taking them so long?” Her sewing – which had been progressing so nicely – was roughly thrown from her lap into the cushions of the sofa, and she rose into a pace. Pacing back and forth, rubbing her hands together fervently, she was waxing and waning, despairing and consoling. “Surely they are not hurt?”

“No, Ma’am, I don’t think-“

“They have not been ransacked by a dastardly highwayman?” Harriet cried, quite forgetting herself.

“Duchess!” Emma replied, firmly, “It is early in the day. I am sure that, if you were to continue your amusements as normal, the time would pass so quickly you would not notice-“

A clattering of hooves and a shriek interrupted Emma, and Victoria and Harriet flew to the window, where they could see a carriage entering the gates. Distinctively gold, distinctively opulent, distinctively romantic: this was the Coburg carriage. And, whilst the two brunettes watched it with bated breath, Emma’s eyes rolled in the gaze of her friend, and her friend chuckled.

Victoria was stood in the open door, trembling like a leaf, when Leopold and Ernst climbed from their carriage. The sight of them weaned the courage from her heart, which leaked through the tips of her fingers and left her skin chalky. William, only a step behind her, took his hand and stroked it down the hair on the back of her neck. This soothed her.

“Victoria!”

The sound of that voice brought joy to her, and she smiled upon seeing a smile so bright and dear to her that it could light the darkest and deepest caverns of her aching heart. It was Ernst, her dear cousin, once brother, now friend. She was so, so happy – unimaginably so – to see that he was glad upon seeing her. She had lost sleep imagining that he would be angry with her, fearing he would feel her betrayal of his late brother keenly, but he did not. All he saw was a dear sister, cousin, Queen, and friend, who needed him now perhaps more than ever. This willed him on, and send him bounding to the door where he enclosed her in a hug befitting of children, not royalty. But she hugged back. Twice as hard.

“Oh, how I have missed you!” he muttered to her ear. Then, seeing William over her shoulder, he pulled away, beaming, “Lord Melbourne! Now I feel I should call you cousin!” And he shook his hand ardently. Tears welled in Victoria’s eyes, to see her beloved husband received so warmly by her family. Then, turning back again, she saw Uncle Leopold, perhaps a little greyer now than he had been last, but just as noble. Victoria had always envied the noble face of her uncle, the true face of a King, she thought. But, despite the nobility his features possessed, Victoria could hardly imagine a face more capable of kindness. An avuncular gentleness gave way on his expressions and made all his edges soft. Not unhealthy, but his colour was greyed with the pangs of grief, and it showed around the circles of his eyes.

“Uncle,” Victoria said, holding two hands in front of her, outstretched for him. He took them, turned his face down to her and replied,

“My beautiful niece.”

A moment passed where Victoria felt only peace. Her worries alleviated, her mind full of love and, in itself, loved by others. Her uncle’s hands anchored her and warmed her.

Then, William and Leopold greeted one another; Leopold was warm towards him as Ernst was, and thanked him as they walked to the sitting room together.

“Why do you thank me, sir?” William asked, watching his wife and Prince Ernst in animated conversation, steaming ahead of him and Leopold (what a gift youth is!).

“You have been so good to my niece,” Leopold replied. William was taken aback by this, and his step faltered. Quickly pulling himself together, he pulled his jacket straighter and replied,

“I must say, sir, that your niece has done far more good for me than I can confess to have returned.” He meant what he said: entirely.

“I think you are modest, Lord Melbourne. My niece is of an emotional temperament, and I could not bear to think that the… the passing of dear Albert would destroy her too. I lost a dear nephew, but I could not have lost a niece. You have given her great comfort.” Lord Melbourne shook his head,

“The Queen is stronger than she, or anyone, understands. I do all in my power to serve her, that is all.” As he spoke, he saw a bounce in her walk, and a laugh – sweeter than birdsong – flew from her and met his ear.

“Serve her?” Leopold asked. Stealing himself, William replied,

“I do all in my power to show her she is loved.”

The sitting room was up a flight of stairs, and Harriet heard the rabble of footsteps from her seat (if one could call it a seat, for she rose from it and sat back down on it every second). Emma continued with the sewing of her flowers, glancing up occasionally to see Harriet biting her nails. When the footsteps seemed very close, Harriet smoothed the folds of her skirt hurriedly, and fixed her hair in her reflection in the window, and pinched her cheeks when she thought Emma didn’t see, and finally adjusted herself into the picture of a demure lady.

The door opened, Emma and Harriet rose, but Emma was not the only one to notice the colouring of Ernst’s cheeks: William noticed it, too. And William saw how it was caused by looking at the Duchess. And when he saw how the Duchess, too, became flushed, he finally understood.

He looked to Emma, and Emma looked back at him. They both understood.

Sitting down, Victoria said,

“I was hoping to have a costume ball. Not tonight, of course, for you must have time to prepare a costume. And tomorrow may be too soon still. And-“

“Tomorrow would be perfect, Victoria,” Leopold replied. And, so, it was decided.

That day was a calm and happy one. They listened to music, and Ernst played the piano forte himself, delighting the company with the speed at which he could perform complicated scales. Victoria was persuaded to sing to his melodies, and her voice was so clear and harmonious that Leopold was brought to tears, reminded of his sister who had once sung with a voice alike to the angels. Their visitors were introduced to the new puppy, and they delighted in his boundless energy. Vicky and Edward played with Ernst who was an attentive playmate to them, and Alice was held in Leopold’s arms, who remarked fondly on her every minute. Victoria’s swelling tummy was beheld by her family as they felt for kicks and listened for noises. The day turned to a pink sunset, and Victoria and William retired early. The pink sun dipping behind the skyline, Victoria watched it, her own face painted with the rosy hue, and William kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear, making her giggle.

“What’s this?” she asked, turning to him, and wrapping her arms around his waist, craning her neck to look at him.

“Your uncle reminded me today,” William replied, craning his neck to look down at her small stature. Petite yet perfect.

“Of what?”

“Of how grateful I am.” Victoria blushed and turned her head down, embarrassed. “You are wonderful, Victoria.” At this, she turned her head up again. Her expression was clear. She remembered their wedding day. Their wedding night. All the love before, in-between, and after. And all the love yet to come.

She closed her eyes, buried her face in his chest, and breathed him in. Her fingers stroked his back. She dozed there, almost.

The day turned to the next, and the preparations for the costume ball consumed the palace. The music was prepared, and played lightly as the guests arrived. The candles were lit, and they dazzled. The doors were flung open and the bottles popped and there was a jovial spirit. Skerrett was securing a black wig to Victoria’s head, gently as she could, as Victoria fixed a gold necklace around her neck. Through the door, came her Antony.

“Egypt, thou knew'st too well my heart was to thy rudder tied by th' strings, and thou shouldst tow me after.”

Careful not to disturb Skerrett’s work, Victoria let her pleasure in this be known to him by a beaming smile in the mirror, which he saw, and which satisfied him. Dressed in toga and laurel crown, he was a Mark Antony that would make women swoon and Caesar quake. And she, his Cleopatra, gilded and perfumed, a jewel of the Nile.

_The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne,_  
Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold;  
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that  
The winds were lovesick with them; the oars were silver,  
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made  
The water which they beat to follow faster,  
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,  
It beggar’d all description: she did lie  
In her pavilion, cloth-of-gold of tissue,  
O’erpicturing that Venus where we see  
The fancy outwork nature: on each side her  
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,  
With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem  
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,  
And what they undid did. 

“If it be love indeed, tell me how much,” she said, to pull him from his dream. Her wig was now fixed, and she turned to him, and almost threw herself into his arms, startling him so much that his laurel crown fell jaunty.

“Oh, so much.” He went to kiss her when Victoria pulled swiftly away, crying,

“I do not remember that line in Shakespeare’s verse!” William chuckled. “I fear you are no Mark Antony, sir!” Her hands planted on her golden hips.

“Pardon, pardon! Sweet Egypt, pardon!” he cried, throwing himself to his knees. He could, when the mood takes him, be susceptible to the dramatics – which Victoria quite adored. Hardly able to control her laughter, she replied,

“Cleopatra is harsh with her Antony, and so I shall have to be harsh to you tonight. I fear I shall not save a single dance with you!” Rising to his feet again, and taking one of her hands, he said,

“How could Cleopatra spurn her Antony thus?” And he kissed her hand, then her wrist, then slowly up her arm until it was whipped away.

“We have guests! We must not keep them waiting!”

And Antony and Cleopatra went hand in hand to the ballroom, where they were received by family and friends with wonder and joy. Their costumes were fine, fetching, and fitting. Victoria practically burned under the candles in her golden garb, and William looked the picture of Roman democracy. Not so much a Prime Minister now. And Antony and Cleopatra amused themselves for the first hour or so in admiring others’ costumes. Sir Robert Peel (the good man who Victoria and William were so indebted to) was dressed as a Tudor of some ilk in doublet and red velvet. Lord Paget had taken another of Shakespeare’s characters, and was donned in the black of the Danish Prince Hamlet, and looked quite the picture, and smiled far too much to be in character. Victoria partnered with Lord Paget, and everyone was amused with the picture of Cleopatra and Hamlet dancing. Lady Emma was Athena, and looked marvellous.

And Ernest found Harriet in the crowd, dressed in a medieval gown, with flowers in her hair,

“Iseult,” he said, frightening her so she swerved around with a gasp. She saw the Prince, and her heart did not calm. “Where is your Tristan?” he asked. How did he know she was Iseult?

“I see I shall not find him in you… don’t tell me… the Pied Piper?”

“Robin Hood, actually,” he replied, stepping back and gesturing to the bow that was slung over his shoulder. She raised her eyebrows, and remarked that it was a very impressive weapon. He thanked her, and said, “If I had known you were to be Iseult, I would have been Tristan.”

“You forget I already have a Tristan in my husband,” she said harshly, unthinkingly. She wanted to tear her words back from the air the moment they were released. She lowered her tone to a whisper. “You know we cannot do this again?” Ernst slapped his thigh and replied in a harsh whisper,

“I had almost forgotten!”

“Shh, we cannot talk here,” Harriet said, beginning to move away from him. But then he grasped her arm. And the world moved in slow motion. Harriet turned, startled, afraid, excited. Ernst’s dark eyes bore into her, finding the innermost part of her.

“Seeing you again, Harriet. I – I cannot pretend.”

“What?”

“I had forgotten the pain. You must know that I admire you more than any other woman.” He was being bold. Far too bold.

“Ernst. We mustn’t.” She freed her arm and, red in the face, weak in the limbs, and conflicted in the heart, she tore herself from his company. He watched her go, forlorn.

Thy forlorn swain.

She had wanted nothing more than to see him again but, in seeing him, she remembered how impossible they were. And it hurt all the more.

They must not let anyone know.

But Emma and William knew. They watched the exchange. Of course, they would not tell of what they had seen. Only to each other. Emma told William all she knew of Harriet’s attachment and, remembering his own frustrated passion before his marriage to Victoria was allowed, he felt intensely sympathetic towards them. Seeing Harriet’s gaze, shining, he felt his own heart cry out.

“Harriet is too sensible to truly give in to matters of the heart,” Emma said, watching her in all her hard stoicism. “So were you, William. Once.”

“I used to think matters of the heart were trifling, inconvenient. It is a natural way to live. And easy, in its way. To be so scared of rejection and scandal that you throw yourself into society rather than into what you truly adore. I believed that the matters of the heart were matters to be rejected. But what other matters are there, really? When all else is dust, it comes back to the heart.” William’s words warmed Emma: to see the man she loved so content, so happy, so sensible to his affections. “I hope Harriet can realise that. Though, I know it is easier said than done.”

“Noble Antony!”

He turned to see Cleopatra, cat-eyed, burnishing in her golden robes, her snake-like arm outstretched,

“Would you care to dance with me?” she asked, cocking her head, a challenging look in that eye of hers. Mark Antony took her hand, pressed it gently, and guided his Cleopatra into his arms, holding her like an Egyptian goddess.

“Egypt,” he said, “Nothing would make me happier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your comments and thoughts are invaluable! Thank you for reading, and for your support!


	10. Frederick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria and William, husband and wife, finally learn to be Queen and Prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt meme:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Victoria_prompt_meme

It was a war he had fought once. And he was younger then.

The soldiers, forming lines, regimented, stood. The blood of rhetoric smeared into the creases of their face, and the streaks of the fight forming pallid lines on their face, the wash of alcoholism and stress. And yet the lines and streaks and creases remained unchanged and unwavering like symbols cut in granite. Granite, too, were the complexions, and the hair of the soldiers: hardly silvery, but grey. The grim scars of critique rupturing their skin, now painless. Uniformed in only a man’s clothes; no armour; no sword or bow or axe. They were fighting a war like no other.

And he had, long ago now, it seemed, washed the coagulate gore from his temples, and scrubbed the red from beneath his fingernails, until he emerged immaculate. He had once been the Harry, and Parliament was the Agincourt. He had cried God for Saint George and felt the roar of them at the back of his neck like sour breath. And he had bled and scarred as all the others. But now there was another man in the crown of thorns, whilst his cloth was of gold, and his wife crowned before them all.

They looked at him as men at war look to men at peace. Protectively. But jealously. He had known the men who stood now as subjects to him. No, not subjects – for he was not a King, nor even a Prince, at least in title. But he had known the men who now saw him as royalty. Men he had drunk with. Men who had gambled him out of money he needed. Men who had shouted at him until their throats were raw and bleeding. Men who had laughed with him until they were giddy. Men whose wives he’d flirted with. Men who he had aided in the putting on of jackets. Men he had held canes for, and called carriages for, called colleagues and enemies. These men had seen the rise of a monarch, the fall of a woman, and the rise of him.

To be here again, on the battlefield, Parliament, his Agincourt, brought pricks of sweat to his forehead.

He sat beside the Queen, on a throne (smaller than hers, of course) that seemed strange to him after so long sat on the benches. It was plush, pushed at him. He sank into where he sat, and he had a strange fear of being utterly subsumed. He clasped the gilded armrests to keep him from falling into the flames. The gold chains around him weighed him down. The wool smothering him would suffocate him. He hardened his face. He looked calm. He sat beside the woman who made him feel brave.

The state opening of Parliament: the first time William Lamb felt like the husband of a Queen.

“You look so marvellous in your regalia, William. I hardly want you to take it off!” Victoria cried, once they returned to Buckingham Palace, pulling her garter sash over her shoulder and throwing it on to the chaise before lowering herself down, sighing as she did so. Her womb was growing larger and larger. It would not be long now.

“I’m afraid, my darling, that I do find it quite uncomfortable.”

Victoria scoffed,

“Try wearing something twice as heavy whilst you are swelling with child!”

This made William chuckle as he replied,

“Yes, well, I cannot confess to your strength.”

Victoria blushed. Pulling Chester on to her bulging lap, Victoria began to play with his ears and kiss him. William watched her, quite silently and quite contentedly.

“You looked beautiful today, Victoria.”

Victoria ceased her kisses and pets, taken aback by William’s sudden conjecture. She looked at him, smirking on the edge of an embarrassed laugh, but shocked into a confused brow and studied silence. Her laugh caught somewhere in her throat, and she shook her head vaguely at him. After a moment, she was able to speak,

“You have seen me give far too many speeches to say that after all this time.” Her voice was mocking but gentle. There was no scorn in what was laughable.

“But never like that,” William said, “never so close. You know, when I married you, I married a woman. I married a woman I had grown to… to admire… to cherish, to… adore. To, quite simply, adore and love. I had married Victoria, and I wanted nothing more than that in all the world. But, today, I realised that to say I have married a woman is to do you a disservice. I have not married a woman at all, but a monarch. I have married a Queen. And, today, for the first time ever, I felt that I belonged to her.” Victoria, having listened to this, burst forth,

“You have always belonged, William! Though you are not prince in title, or in status, or in inheritance, you are prince in all other things. I would not just want a husband behind me!” she laughed. Then, earnestly, she continued, “I want a husband, a prince, a lover and an advisor beside me. You are all those things.”

“Robert Peel would squirm to hear you say that.”

“Let him squirm!” Victoria cried, rising steadily to her feet, placing Chester on the floor, and winding her arms around William’s shoulders. She rested her chin on the top of his head, where his hair was softest and it tickled at her neck, and she closed her eyes and enveloped him. Her hands grasped the back of his head, and she pulled him into her chest. He fell into her, letting his head come to rest at her body, which was soft and full, and his eyes – too – closed. And there they were in a waking dream. “We will not heed him.”

Vicky pulling her mother’s skirt tore them from their embrace, and Victoria sunk to her knees to attend to her daughter, who asked for a flower to be arranged into her hair. Victoria took the flower between two fingers, remembering fondly the flowers she received from Brocket, and smelled it. It smelled peachy, saccharine but natural. It smelled like fresh air and streams of clear water. Then she tucked it behind her young girl’s ear in the folds of her dark hair. Vicky smiled, and ran off, without a word of thanks to be heard.

Victoria stood back up and after a moment of thought asked,

“I was thinking about the birth of our child, and where he will be born-“

“You’re not going to demand to be whisked off to Brocket whilst you are in labour again, are you, Victoria?” he laughed. Victoria remained serious,

“No, I was going to say Osborne.”

“Osborne? When?”

“Soon!” Victoria cried, “I know he is coming soon. I can feel it.”

“He?”

“He is a boy. I know he is.” This humoured William,

“And you want him to be born at Osborne?” he asked. Victoria nodded. There was not a single note of humour in her. “Well, I am sure we could go to Osborne, once Leopold and Ernst-“

“No, they will come with us!”

“They will?”

“Yes, of course. And so will Harriet and Emma. And so will the children, of course. And the servants. I want everyone to be there. Osborne is such a big house, we will be sure to fit everyone.”

“All the servants?”

“Perhaps not all. But certainly, Miss Skerrett, and Mr Penge, and Mr Francatelli.”

“You have servants at Osborne, my dear.”

“I want my staff, William! I want there to be everyone I know and love best. But I do not want it to be in London. I do not want it to be here. I want to be where the fresh air is. I want to be where the music is, and the sea. I want to be where my heart is.”

Queen Victoria was quite persuasive and William Lamb, tucked into the pocket of her gown as he was, conceded, and the preparations were made quite urgently (as Victoria insisted the child would be ready soon) to go to Osborne House. Leopold and Ernst were more than happy to comply, both speaking favourably of the sea air and the English countryside (despite both having experienced very little of it in their time, they presumed it to be much like the German) and the servants selected were delighted at this news.

Skerrett was first to know, and she hurried – faster than she should have – to tell Francatelli.

“You are off to Osborne House!” she cried, her feet rapping on the stones. Francatelli, working on some delicate truffles with a piping bag and a good deal of powdered sugar, waited until he had finished brandishing a chocolate curl before he leant back, admired his work, and turned to Nancy, who was still waving her bright, beaming smile in his direction. Wiping his forehead on the back of his sleeve as not to cover himself in powdered sugar, he replied,

“Pardon?”

Nancy groaned,

“The Queen has decided to go to the Isle of Wight. To have her baby. And you, Charles Francatelli, have been chosen to escort her!” Skerrett’s enthusiasm was contagious and, though this news did not inspire Francatelli with the same kind of excitement, he could not help but smile. In fact, this was irksome to him – all his work was here, his equipment, the ovens he knew the workings of, the pans he knew the storage of, the ingredients he trusted. What would they have in the Isle of Wight? Ghastly images of grassroots and stripped, tarnished fish scattered through his mind, and it was only by glancing back down at his truffles that he could soothe his nerves.

“Me?”

“Yes!”

“When will this be happening?” he asked.

“Soon, very soon. By the end of the week, if all goes to plan.”

“Which, of course, it will. What the Queen wants, the Queen gets.”

Nancy planted her hands on her hips.

“You’re sulking.”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. You don’t want to go!” she laughed, “How miserable of you, I thought it would be fun!”

It would be more fun, Francatelli thought, if she were able to go with me.

“I think, Miss Skerrett, that I will be bored,” he replied. Skerrett seemed offended,

“Bored? I thought we could walk about the gardens together! The Queen will be so busy that no one would notice if we were to slink off! I’ve heard it is not far from the beach. Wouldn’t you like to see the sea with me?”

“With you?”

“Yes, why ever not?”

“You’re going too?”

“Of course!”

“Oh,” Francatelli said, quite dumbly.

“Oh, Mr Francatelli, you really are slow! I’m the Queen’s dresser, of course I am invited!”

Charles laughed, his cheeks tinging pink.

“Well, in that case, Miss Skerrett, I would like nothing more than to go to the beach with you.”

Emma was delighted to be invited and Harriet, still nursing an twinging heart, accepted graciously, whilst the sight of Ernst still made her ache.

But the carriages were prepared. William, Victoria and their three children were gathered into the first carriage. Leopold and Ernst shared the second carriage, talking animatedly. Harriet and Emma caught the third carriage, Emma taking Harriet’s hand as soon as the carriage door was closed, and saying kind words to calm her nerves. Skerrett, Penge and Francatelli joined in another carriage. They were unused to journeys such as this, and it produced a strange mixture of excitement, nervousness, and nausea.

The journey was smooth, on an overcast day, and the water was taken to the Isle of Wight, and then more carriages taken towards Osborne House. And when, at last, they arrived, the royal procession was tired and sluggish. And that was exactly as Victoria wanted. She was less a Queen now, and more of a friend, a hostess, a mother and a woman. The servants found their bearings. Francatelli found the pots and pans and piping bags. Mr Penge asserted himself as quickly as he could. Lehzen found herself a quiet corner. Leopold studied the rooms, the architecture and the décor, and commented on the colour of the rugs and the curtains, and the quality of the artwork on the walls. Ernst sat down with Harriet, and made neutral conversation with her. Both of them were nervous and pale and fidgeted as they spoke. Speaking to each other was torture: but a sublime torture. Emma made amiable conversation with Victoria’s children, whilst Victoria watched her, and William stood at the window, looking out into the gardens, the seemingly never-ending expanse of green stretching out into the line where the sky ends, and then spreading upwards towards the clouds, paling now in the evening, and painting itself with a golden orange hue upon which bird’s wings caressed and danced, sending their black feather strokes shooting across the canvas. There was already music and, more than that, there was already peace.

And that peace consumed, and the music lulled, and a couple of weeks were enjoyed. Chester was brought too, of course, and he delighted the entire congregation. Harriet and Ernst talked often, their nervousness pooling into a delight, and their conversation became more animated and sweet. It seemed, away from London, their fears had flown away, or dissipated, and they could show each other some inkling of attachment that their hearts felt, thundering. Emma watched them happily. Emma, herself, found a penchant for a German card game that Leopold was more than happy to teach her – and the pair spent almost hours on end, playing cards together. All thought it was a rather strange sight, but the pair enjoyed it far too much to be stopped. They would drink and gamble like men together. And Leopold would remark that he found Lady Portman quite charming.

Francatelli and Skerrett did sneak out to the beach, when they thought it was safe to do so. Hand-in-hand for some of the way, they felt a bracing air in their nose and their hair and, when they spoke to each other, their voices were caught up in the force of the gale and pushed miles and miles away. Their conversation occurred far from where their bodies stood. And their hearts existed up, miles and miles up, in some heavenly area of the sky. On the beach, the sky was golden, and the sea was made golden too, until it looked like someone had melted down candlelight, and poured it from a great height so it splashed into the ocean, and infused with the natural tide. Lapping at the shores, and Nancy’s own feet, she laughed and laughed. She had never seen the sea before, and she had never imagined it being so, so wide and distant. It was flat. She never thought it would be so flat. She thought she could almost slip her shoes from her feet and run barefoot across the surface of it, and chase the pale pinprick stars that were only now beginning to glisten. It seemed that if she started to run, she would enter a space where there was only the liquid light rippling beneath her toes and the pinkish sky above her, and there would be no shore and no people. Then Francatelli took her hand, and she was brought back like a boat to the shore.

She turned, breathless, wordless, and then a hand caught itself in her braid. Her heart skipped, and her body felt weak. And he muttered something she could not hear above the wind and the waves. And, as he leant in and kissed her, the wind buffeted them, and she was wrapped in his arms to keep her from being blown away to see. But his lips were the anchor.

Upon returning to Osborne House, smiling giddily, Nancy and Charles found the servants quarters eerily quiet. They crept, but their footsteps were like thunder. Where was everyone?

It was only when a woman’s cry emerged that they understood.

The Queen was having her baby.

Ernst and Harriet stood outside the door. Harriet was biting her nails nervously, listening to the Queen’s groans and cries. But, then, Ernst took her hand and held it tightly. She turned to him, gasping, and he silenced her with a single look. It seemed to tell her: don’t worry, let this happen, there is no need to be afraid now. And she stopped worrying, let it happen, and was unafraid.

Leopold stood patiently, optimistically (despite everything), understanding his niece’s strength, and Emma stood near him, optimistic too.

William knelt at his wife’s bedside, stroking her hair from her forehead, lending his hand for her to clasp. He smiled. All the time, as she screamed, he smiled at her. He was proud. Prouder that anyone. Happier than he had ever been. He felt like a prince, now. And she, despite her pain, looked more regal than anything. More powerful than anyone.

“He’s a boy.”

“Frederick, then.”

“Frederick.”

“Frederick,” they rang out.

“He is beautiful, William.”

“Yes, yes he is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's that! I wanted to clean this story up before s2, just to make things nice and neat! I know this story didn't have /much/ of a plot - but I still enjoyed writing it so I hope you enjoyed reading it! Thank you for all the support - and look forward for more fics coming soon!! (Probably fixing the pain of s2)


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